


Pride, Ambition, Cunning

by PennyPancake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Draco, Canon Pansy, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco pov, Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts First Year, Slytherin, Sorcerers stone, pansy pov, philosophers stone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20067319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyPancake/pseuds/PennyPancake
Summary: We all know how things develop between Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson.The beginning of their friendship, however, was completely different than one would expect.About friendship and enmity, egocentric parents and life as a Slytherin first-year. Canon.





	1. The Good, the Bad, the Cocky

* * *

_"I'll probably be in Ravenclaw, like my dad," Pansy says, carefully chewing on a red bean that tastes like cherry._

* * *

"Did you pack your winter coat?" Gemma Parkinson asks her daughter.

"Yes, Mum," Pansy replies impatiently.

"And your books?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Send us an owl as soon as you -"

"Okay, Mum, but I have to go, so ..."

Edward Parkinson bends down to her and hugs her tightly. "Take care of yourself, princess."

But Pansy hardly listens and looks around; the platform nine and three-quarters at London's King's Cross station is slowly filling up.

The scarlet steam engine with the sign Hogwarts Express, 11 o'clock blows smoke over the heads of the waiting crowd. The people's chattering, the heavy trunk's scraping, the owl's wing beating and the cat's meowing blurs into a single, big noise.

The thought that she will not come home until Christmas break makes Pansy a little nervous, but she also feels an eerie anticipation.

Finally, she will learn how to perform magic properly, because she has been admitted to one of the world's most prestigious schools of witchcraft and wizardry: Hogwarts, a boarding school in Scotland, her father had visited as well (while her mother was a student at Beauxbatons, a wizarding school in France).

Mrs Parkinson strokes Pansys chin-length, dark brown hair and kisses her lightly on the cheek. "Behave yourself. And be diligent, hear me? Oh, and don't forget Winston!" She hands her the cat carrier with her little, black cat inside.

"Well, then, see you in three months." Pansy smiles weakly and her parents wave her goodbye until she has hopped on the train.

Fortunately, the corridors are still quite empty; most of her fellow students still seem busy saying goodbye to their parents and welcoming friends they have not seen during the summer holidays.

With her suitcase in one, the cat carrier in the other hand, Pansy maneuvers through the train, when suddenly a compartment door opens in front of her and a tall, broad-shouldered boy with a confused expression steps out. Pansy can barely stop before she collides with him.

"Goyle, what are you doing?" someone shouts from inside the compartment, apparently unnerved. "Stop blocking the corridor and help me with the suitcase!"

"Sorry," the boy mumbles and goes back inside.

Slightly annoyed, Pansy continues her way and finally finds an empty compartment a few metres ahead. She puts down the cat carrier and shoves her suitcase under a window seat on which she plonks herself down. She resists the temptation to place her legs on the opposite seat.

_'__Only uneducated children do that_,' she hears her mother say.

She pulls out her pocket mirror to critically eye herself. Her hair is still straight and neat, her hairband is in place and she has neither dark circles under her eyes, nor cracked lips nor a _pale complexion_ (which her mother likes to mention frequently, as if Pansy could influence what her skin tone looks like).

Today is a good day.

Her father once told her that she is the prettiest girl in the world, but of course she is not naïve enough to believe him - after all, she is not a little child anymore, even though she is relatively small for her age.

Like her father, she has a round face, and instead of having her mother's high cheekbones, she got her nose, whose tip is slightly upturned. But she kind of likes her green-brown eyes, which are framed with thick lashes.

She puts the mirror back, smooths her skirt and takes the cat carrier on her lap. "You've got it good, Winston, you're perfect!"

While he is moaning in response, the compartment door is reopened.

"Hello! Is there still a place here?", asks a girl with bushy brown hair. She has neither an owl, nor a cat, but is already wearing her black robe, a part of the school uniform.

"Yes," answers Pansy, unable to take her eyes off the girl's hair, which resembles a bird's nest and urgently needs a conditioner.

The girl stows her trunk and sits down opposite Pansy. "I'm Hermione Granger," she says, slightly affected, revealing her rather large front teeth.

"Pansy Parkinson."

She has no desire for small talk; on the other hand, it might be beneficial to get along with as much people as possible (even when they have bad hairdos). So she tries to sound interested and asks, "Is it your first year at Hogwarts, too?"

But shortly afterwards she wishes she would have stayed quiet.

"Oh, yes, it is! And I'm really excited, probably more than anyone else on the train. Well, I'm kind of an exceptional case, I suppose. Because my parents are non-magical - you call them ... _Muggles_, right?"

Pansy manages to nod before Hermione continues. "Anyway, it's extremely rare for Muggles' children to have magical abilities, but well, here I am.

We were totally surprised when I got the acceptance letter, that's for sure! But the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, convinced my parents in a long conversation that I can graduate well at a school for magicians. So they agreed.

I had to acquire all the basic knowledge myself, of course, but luckily, I turned eleven last September, so I got my letter almost a year ago.

I took the time to look at the textbooks and memorise them all to be prepared for the classes. Some might find that exaggerated, but my mother always says 'knowledge is power' and I agree. I hope I haven't overlooked anything important ..."

Hermione looks at the ceiling for a moment, brooding. "No, I looked at everything conscientiously. Well, almost, because there is no textbook on Quidditch. I can't imagine what it's like flying on a broom! To be honest, that seems pretty clichéd to me. Anyway, now the question is, in which house we're going to be, right?"

It takes a few seconds for Pansy to wake up from her trance. She has barely noticed that the Hogwarts Express has already set in motion.

"Yes, exactly," she says curtly. If Hermione weren't such a know-it-all and talking like a waterfall, Pansy would have thought of some questions, like:

_'Is it true that Muggles sometimes fly to the moon? And if so, what are they doing there?'  
_

_'Do they all have beaver teeth like you?'  
_

_'What's wrong with your hair?'_

The next moment the compartment door opens again and two girls enter. Both are wearing their long, black hair in braided plaits and look very similar.

Pansy's mood lifts. They're prettier than Hermione, but not prettier than herself. And she's grateful for any new company.

"Hello," the girls say simultaneously.

"I'm Parvati Patil."

"And I'm Padma Patil."

Pansy and Hermione also introduce themselves, while the twins push their suitcases under the free seats.

"Oh, how cute!" Padma says, sitting next to Pansy and looking into the cat box.

"His name is Winston. Winston Purchill," she says with a grin, scratching him through the grille with a finger on his ear, and he begins to purr softly.

"I thought about getting myself a cat, too," Hermione interjects. "But I'd better wait, I want to focus on the classes first. A pet would only distract me."

Pansy and Padma exchange a glimpse.

"Where are you both from?" Parvati asks.

While Hermione inhales, Pansy responds quickly, "My parents and I live in London now, but we lived in Paris until I was eight. My mother is a fashion designer," she explains proudly.

"Really? That's cool!" answers Parvati impressed. The sisters are already much more sympathetic to Pansy than Hermione.

"I envy you – I'd love to go to Paris, too," says Padma. "We live in Manchester, but our parents are from India."

Hermione has apparently decided that she has been quiet long enough. "My parents and I have been in France before, and we'll fly back someday. There are so many interesting places with a witchcraft past, from which I could learn a lot."

For a moment, it looks like she's done, but then she starts to tell her story from before, much to Pansy's displeasure.

Eyes rolling, she looks out the window and realises that she has only been sitting in this compartment for half an hour, though it feels like an eternity.

While Hermione blithely babbles, there is a knock on the door. A cute, elderly lady asks if they want something off the trolley as provisions for the trip.

Pansy pays five silver Sickles and three bronze Knuts for two packages of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans, Acid Pops and a Chocolate Frog.

Padma and Parvati treat themselves with some sweets, too, but Hermione refuses, stating that her parents are dentists.

Pansy doesn't have the slightest idea of what that could mean, but doesn't want to start the talking-machine again, and opens a package of her beans. The term _Every-__Flavour_ should be taken literally. She once took a blue bean for blueberry, but it tasted like ink!

"I mentioned the four Hogwarts houses earlier. What's your opinion about them?" Hermione asks enthusiastically.

"I'll probably be in Ravenclaw, like my dad," Pansy says, carefully chewing on a red bean that tastes like cherry.

Parvati nods in agreement. "We also hope for Ravenclaw. Or Gryffindor of course - it seems quite popular, and I think Professor Dumbledore used to be there himself."

"Really? That sounds good, Dumbledore is considered one of the greatest wizards of our time," says Hermione reverently. "And what about Hufflepuff and Slytherin?"

"No way!" Parvati wrinkles her nose. "There are only losers in Hufflepuff, but compared to Slytherin it's still the lesser evil. Those are all snakes in the grass, just like the animal in their crest."

Pansy frowns. Her father had often talked about his time in Hogwarts; about the ghosts, who are sometimes more, sometimes less friendly, about secret passages that lead to the neighbouring village Hogsmeade, about the best view in the whole castle (the Astronomy Tower) and about the four houses and their traits, of course. But that Hufflepuff and Slytherin have a bad reputation, she hears for the first time.

Her father had never spoken negatively of students from other houses, quite the contrary. In his opinion, they all represent desirable characteristics: intelligence (Ravenclaw), bravery (Gryffindor), diligence (Hufflepuff) and ambition (Slytherin).

That's why Pansy never cared about in which house she'll end up. Apart from that, _her_ house will be the best of course, otherwise she wouldn't be in it.

"Well, this might be a bit of a stretch," Padma says to her sister.

"But basically I'm right! You know how it's always said: there is not one single witch or wizard that went bad who wasn't in Slytherin," Parvati replies, saying the last sentence like a rhyme she has learned by heart. "Supposedly You-Know-Who was there, too, and I think that says it all!"

Apparently Padma and Hermione agree, because now there is silence in the compartment.

Pansy doesn't answer as well, because she knows how to behave, but whenever she hears the term _You-Know-Who_, she wants to roll her eyes theatrically.

Many people use that synonym when they speak of the darkest wizard in recent history: Voldemort, a powerful and cruel fanatic who tried to extinguish Muggles and Muggleborns and gain control over the wizarding community.

Even today, ten years after his death, this chapter of history is still a sensitive subject, and the fear of using his name is widespread (though completely irrational, as her father always emphasises).

Anyway, Pansy doesn't feel like thinking about deceased dark wizards, or about whether there are two good and two bad Hogwarts houses. That's ridiculous and makes no sense. Parvati will find out soon enough that she's the only one with such weird prejudices. Soon they will arrive at Hogwarts, be chosen for what-so-ever and just have a good time. The End.

More importantly, Pansy wonders what the school uniforms look like, especially considering the house colours. Because they are the only reason she'd prefer Ravenclaw over Hufflepuff: she doesn't like yellow too much, but blue is her favorite Colour. Still, of course, she would give everything for Hufflepuff if it would be her house.

She imagines that one day it will be told, that Hufflepuff was totally uncool until Pansy Parkinson showed up and changed everything. The enthusiasm for Hufflepuff will even go so far that first-years, who are selected for another house, beg their parents to send them to another school. At some point, Professor Dumbledore will see reason and close the other three houses. Hogwarts is renamed Hufflepuff and the new crest animal is a small black cat.

A grin flashes over her face.

"Do you have any idea how exactly we will be selected for our house?" Hermione asks, breaking the silence. "I couldn't find anything in _Hogwarts: A History_ about it."

Padma ponders. "No idea, maybe we have to answer questions, like a personality test."

"Or perform some simple spells," says Parvati.

"That's fine with me. I practiced a bit and it worked out every time," says Hermione pompously.

Pansy's father didn't want to tell her how the selection is taking place. Once, she heard that it has something to do with a hat that can talk, but this idea seems kind of stupid to her.

Hermione mumbles a few spells to herself when suddenly a chubby boy bursts into the compartment. "Excuse me, but you didn't happen to see a toad?!" he asks, slightly out of breath.

"No, thank Merlin!" Pansy replies, grimacing. The twins giggle.

He runs his finger through his hair desperately. "Oh, bother ... he keeps escaping from me again and again!"

Hermione gets up. "You know what? I'll help you with your search. I'm Hermione Granger."

The boy smiles gratefully at her. "Neville Longbottom. That's really nice of you."

"I wanted to stretch my legs anyway. See you later, girls."

When she closes the door behind her, the three girls look at each other.

"Seriously," Pansy says, placing the cat box in the now vacant seat. "Who brings a _toad_ to Hogwarts?"

"Who wants to have a toad at all?" Padma asks, irritated. "Cats are cute, owls are useful, but toads?! The letters said that you can bring one of the three animals, but I still don't understand the relation. Though, toads are nothing compared to that tarantula the boy with dreadlocks had with him."

"Tarantula?" Pansy yells in disgust.

"Yes, when we entered the train, he was standing outside, holding the thing in a cardboard box. Caused quite a stir. You don't like spiders, either?"

"Let's just say, that if the toad appears here, I'll throw it out the window - but if a tarantula shows up, I'll jump by myself!"

"I thought about that for a moment when Hermione bent our ears," Parvati says, rolling her eyes. "She thinks she's so clever!"

"I know!" Pansy sighs. "Maybe we're lucky and she stays away. There are so many people on the train who don't know her life story yet."

Padma smiles. "Well, the toadless Neville will certainly love to hear about it."

"Hmm ... I think _Toadboy_ sounds better."

"He reminds me of a fat hamster," Parvati grins.

"True, but against your beloved Myron Wagtail, no one's having a chance anyway, right, Sis?" Padma chuckles and turns to Pansy. "You know, the front singer of the _Weird Sisters_. She has a huge poster of him in her room - bare-chested!"

Parvati blushes and murmurs, "So what! Myron is absolutely cool."

"Want an autograph?" Pansy asks, tucking away the rest of her sweets in her suitcase.

"What do you mean?"

"I could get you one. With personal dedication, of course."

Parvati stares at Pansy with her mouth open. "How -"

"I see him every few months; my mom likes to gives parties. Next time, I'll tell him to write you something nice."

With a shriek, Parvati jumps up and falls around her neck. "Oh Pansy - thank you! That's awesome!"

Pansy pats her back in amusement. "No problem, really."

Grinning, Padma picks up the liquorice wands from the floor, which laid previously on Parvati's lap.

"Tell me everything about Myron! What's he like?"

"Well, he's a little ... crazy. And funny."

"Is he single?"

"I think so."

Parvati makes a squeaky sound.

For quite a while, Pansy is questioned about the rock singer, while Winston, whom she has taken out from his box, plays with a brown bean she didn't dare to eat. They talk about the equipment for first-years they had to buy, what kind of wood their wands are made of and where they bought their school robes.

Of course, Pansy's mother made her crepe silk robes for her. Merlin forbid that she wears off-the-peg fashion, like it's sold at_ Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions _in Diagon Alley!

None of them notices that the landscape outside their window is increasingly changing; where villages and fields used to be, forests, twisting rivers and dark green hills are flying past them now.

"You know, I don't think we're ending up in different houses, we have too much in common," Parvati says to Pansy. "Even your name starts with 'Pa', just like ours. It's destiny that we met each other!"

Pansy smiles satisfied, because she already made two friends, before she even arrived at Hogwarts. Not that she would be very surprised; it has always been an advantage to have a famous mother. In Paris, she had tons of friends who envied her and let her decide everything.

Friendship is such a great thing!

A few minutes later, Hermione sticks her head back in the compartment. "I just wanted to let you know that we haven't found Neville's toad yet, so I'll come back later."

"Alright!" the girls call in unison, nodding understandingly.

"Besides, some people out here act totally childish, running up and down the corridors like lunatics. I'm going to appeal to their conscience," she says snootily. But just before she closes the door, she seems to have remembered something else. "And by the way - Harry Potter is sitting here on the train! At first I thought it was a rumor, but I saw him myself," she says and finally disappears.

_"I saw him myself," _Parvati imitates her. "Who does she think she is, please? Talks like she's a prefect in her seventh year. Nobody will ever take her seriously with those beaver teeth."

Pansy sneers. "Maybe she wants to distract from them with the bush on her head. I wouldn't be surprised if the toad has crawled into it and cannot find a way out."

"And why rumor?" Padma asks, frowning. "Anyone who can count to eleven knows that Harry Potter is in our year."

"Hey, let's go find him, I want to know what he looks like," says Parvati.

"We'll see him soon enough," notes Padma. "He's in our class, after all."

Harry Potter. Of course, Pansy heard about the legendary _boy who lived_, like probably every witch and wizard in the world.

He is called like that because Voldemort murdered his parents on Halloween ten years ago, but some sort of power prevented him from killing the then one-year-old boy, and instead caused his own downfall somehow.

The reason for this can't be explained until this day, it's just said that the deadly curse, of which Harry allegedly has retained only a scar on his forehead, rebounded on Voldemort.

Some people say that he is not dead, that he just disappeared, but Pansy thinks this is nonsense. Even more stupid is the theory that Harry Potter himself is an extremely powerful wizard.

"I don't know what's so special about him," she says. "It's not like he has secret superpowers or anything like that."

"But because of him, You-Know-Who disappeared," Parvati states.

"He died!" Pansy replies firmly. "And it was just a lucky coincidence. I mean, Potter was still a baby. He might have known where his nose is, but surely not how to destroy one of the most powerful wizards in the world!"

"Yeah ... but don't you want to ask him if he remembers anything?"

Pansy takes her pocket mirror and looks at herself. "He's always asked that. Would you like to chat constantly about the night your parents died? And he probably has only Quidditch on the brain, like all the boys."

She applies a cream on her lips and takes a look out the window. The sky has already turned deep-purple and they seem to be losing speed.

The girls are just putting on their robes when a voice sounds, "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage and the cages on the train, everything will be taken to the school separately."

"I'll see you soon, little one," Pansy says to Winston, puts him back in his box, and follows the twins into the corridor, which is already full of students. Further back, she recognises Hermione, who still seems busy comforting Longbottom.

Finally, the Hogwarts Express comes to a standstill, and the crowds push their way towards the door and out onto a small, dark platform.

Shortly thereafter, the light of a lamp rises above their heads, and a deep, growling voice calls, "Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!"

Pansy looks up into a very hairy face. It belongs to a man who is estimated three metres tall and simply too fat to be allowed. His long, matted hair makes him look wild and the lantern looks small and fragile in his huge hand.

With a disparaging look, she wonders if this _person_ is one of the teachers at Hogwarts.

"C'mon, follow me - any more firs'-years? Mind yer step, now! Firs'-years, follow me!"

"Who exactly is supposed to follow him?" whispers Pansy. "I think I haven't quite understood it yet."

Giggling, Parvati links arms with her sister and Pansy before they follow the bearded giant down a narrow path. There is nothing but darkness around them. Every now and then girls can be heard shrieking ... and someone sniffling.

"Cheer up, Neville," they hear Hermione say.

Parvati tries in vain not to burst out. "I bet, the fat little crybaby is going to Hufflepuff!"

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec. Jus' round this bend here," the man calls over his shoulder.

The path has opened suddenly and they are standing on the edge of a great, black lake.

On the other side, perched atop a high mountain, is a mighty castle with many turrets and towers. It's enlighted windows are sparkling in the night sky.

A loud 'Oooohh!' sounds.

Although Pansy has always been walking in and out of gorgeous mansions, this sight takes even her breath away for a moment. With her home for the next seven years, she could have done so much worse.

"No more'n four to a boat!" the man says, pointing to a fleet of small boats bobbing along the shore. He takes one boat for himself, whereupon he sinks dangerously low.

Pansy and the twins take a seat, followed by a girl with blond pigtails. Further ahead, Hermione and Neville join two boys.

"Everyone in? Right then - FORWARD!"

They set themselves in motion and glide across the glassy lake, while they are staring silently up at the castle. When they reach the cliff, they are carried through a tunnel until they reach a kind of harbour and climb out of the boats.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" the man asks abruptly.

"Trevor!" Neville cries relieved, taking his lost friend.

Pansy and the twins grin at each other and continue marching until they stand in front of a long stone staircase. Arriving at the top, they are gathered around a huge oak door - the entrance portal of the castle.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

The man raises his gigantic fist and knocks on the castle door three times.


	2. Mind if I Slytherin?

* * *

_“_ _I think you broke the record. The hat has probably never decided on a house so fast!_ _”_

* * *

When the gate opens, an older witch in emerald-green robes stands in front of them. Her dark hair is tied at the back of her head and she looks down sternly at the students through her square glasses.

This must be Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor house. Draco’s parents had already mentioned to him that she can’t take a joke, which is not hard to tell.

_‘Don’t do her a favor and give her a reason to deduct points from you!’_ his father had advised him.

“The first-years, Professor McGonagall,” says the gamekeeper, evidently pleased with himself. As if he had done something special, apart from the fact that he didn’t drown in the lake with that tiny boat.

Draco’s father has a strong view on Rubeus Hagrid: a clumsy, worthless alcoholic, whose attempts to perform magic always end in disasters, and who is kept as a kind of servant by Dumbledore out of pity.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” McGonagall pulls the door wide open and gestures them to enter.

From the stone walls, medieval flaming torches light up the huge Entrance Hall, whose ceiling is too high to make out. They follow McGonagall, passing a magnificent marble staircase that leads to the upper floors, into a small chamber.

As one of the first, Draco pushes in, followed by Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, who are a lot taller and sturdier than him and who, due to lack of space, are standing closer to him than he would have liked.

The three belong together somehow. They grew up and had private lessons together. Visually, however, they have nothing in common:

Like all members of the Malfoy family, Draco has white blond hair, light blue eyes, pointed features, and a sophisticated paleness. Crabbe, on the other hand, wears a black, pudding-basin haircut, is fat, extreme lazy and loves to gorge himself on candy (in fact, he spent most of the train ride eating and snoring). Goyle has stubbly, ochre-colored hair, is rather muscular and - to say the least - below-average intelligent.

Nevertheless, Draco cannot complain, because in everything they do, he calls the shots and Crabbe and Goyle don’t bother at all. Considering that they’re eleven as well, their height is pretty impressive, so nobody will dare to mess with the trio.

Also, both like Quidditch, Draco’s absolute favourite sport.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” McGonagall says. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony, because, while you are here, your house will be something like ...”

Bored, Draco looks at his fingernails. Of course, he already knows about everything: the houses, the House Cup, the stupid talking hat, the points system, the Muggle-fond, old Dumbledore ...

He glances at Goyle, who still rubs his finger and murmurs: “It still hurts.”

Draco’s expression darkens at the memory of the _incident_ on the train.

He still hears his father’s words, telling him to try to befriend Harry Potter, the “Hero of the Nation”, as soon as he crosses his path, because although he was raised by Muggle-relatives, he would be enrolled with him this year, blah blah blah.

His father knows such things because he a) maintains good contact with the Ministry of Magic, b) is chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors and c) is Lucius Malfoy and therefore gets to know everything about everyone if he wants to. Because in the hierarchy of pure-blooded and still existing wizarding families, no one is above the Malfoys - except maybe the Blacks, Draco’s maternal relatives.

Anyway, Draco had decided to watch out for Potter on the Hogwarts Express and offer him his camaraderie. It was not difficult to find the right compartment, because a few students stood in front of it, pointed at the door and whispered excitedly. When Draco, with Crabbe and Goyle in tow, opened the compartment, his eyes first fell on a red-haired boy in a hand-me-down robe, exposing him as an offspring of the Weasleys (which all have red hair, are poor and still have a whole pack of children).

Draco was even less pleased, however, when he saw who was sitting opposite Weasley - Harry Potter, or: the boy in baggy clothes and with broken glasses, which he had met a month ago in Diagon Alley!

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t even have looked at him once, but as luck would have it, they had been in Madam Malkin’s shop at the same time, standing next to each other on stools to have their school robes pinned up.

Because Draco had been bored to death, he asked the unknown boy about his opinion on Quidditch and the Hogwarts houses, but his vocabulary seemed to be limited to ‘yes’ and ‘no’ (which undercuts even Goyle) and he looked so dumbfounded that Draco thought he might be retarded.

He formed his first complete sentence when he described Hagrid, who was waiting for him outside, as _brilliant_, which didn’t make matters any better ...

Never would Draco have guessed that this oaf could be the famous Harry Potter!

Although he was on the verge of leaving the compartment backwards, Draco pulled himself together. And so the offence took its course. He introduced himself to Potter by name, Weasley had the nerve to laugh, and so Draco told Potter that hanging out with a Weasley means social suicide.

Basically he wanted to make the redhead look stupid; he didn’t care about Potter until the moment Draco reached out his hand to him politely. For what happened next was even more outrageous than a Weasley who’s laughing at a Malfoy: Harry Potter refused to shake hands with him, saying he could tell the wrong sort of company for himself.

Until then, Draco wasn’t even used to introduce himself as people usually recognise him, but being rejected was a premiere in his life (behind him, he actually heard Crabbe and Goyle gasp for air). Even if Merlin himself would have sat in front of him, he simply could not accept this without a word.

_‘I’d be careful if I were you, Potter. Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it’ll rub off on you.’_

Secretly, Draco was surprised that Potter hadn’t lashed out at him (which he would have regretted in Crabbe’s and Goyle’s presence, though). Instead, a lame argument followed, until Goyle tried to grab some of Potters sweets and let out a horrible yell; a disgusting, fat rat was hanging off his finger, which he could only shake off with great difficulty.

The trio had no desire to find out whether there were more rats lurking among the sweets and left the compartment quickly.

That’s how Goyle came to his scar and Draco to his very first enemy.

“... house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honour. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Draco watches in amusement how Potter rushes through his messy hair, as if that would change anything about his scruffy appearance.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” McGonagall says. “Please wait quietly.”

Once she’s gone, the students promptly begin to whisper. “Remember what I told you!” Draco hisses at Crabbe and Goyle. Both look at him blankly. He frowns. “For real? You’ve forgotten what we just discussed on the train?”

Now Crabbe seems to get it and gives him the thumbs-up grinning. “The Slytherin thing,” he whispers in Goyle’s ear conspiratorially.

“Oh ... oh, yes.”

Draco buries his face in his hands. Sometimes he doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry about those simpletons. If only the situation wasn’t so damn serious! Of course, his parents expect nothing else than him being sorted into Slytherin, as it has been a tradition in his family for a long time.

He doesn’t even want to be in any other house, but what if the dumb hat makes the decision for him? Ravenclaw would still be acceptable, but Gryffindor or Hufflepuff? Completely out of the question! Surely his father would be terribly upset and call on Dumbledore to correct this obvious mistake.

His only option to avoid that situation in the first place, is to follow his mother’s advice. As this could easily solve the problem, he told Crabbe and Goyle about it during the train ride.

Suddenly, Draco’s thoughts are interrupted by three things happening at the same time: An ice-cold breeze sweeps over his head, students start screaming and Goyle clasps his arm with a terrified expression. Draco follows his gaze and winces.

About twenty, almost transparent ghosts are floating through the back wall, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

There are ghosts in the Malfoy Villa as well - but only two of them. And still, Draco has never get used to their soundlessness and their quirk to appear whenever it suits them, even though ghosts aren’t dangerous, of course.

Unnerved, he pushes Goyle away. “Calm down!”

The ghosts now become aware of the students and look down on them. Suddenly, there is silence. A ghost with a ruff asks, “I say, what are you all doing here?”

“New students!” a round, bald-headed ghost states with a grin. “About to be sorted, I suppose? Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know.”

_I hope not. Otherwise, it might be that I’ll join you up there, soon. Or even worse: be disinherited._

A moment later, McGonagall returns. “Move along now, the Sorting Ceremony’s about to start!” she instructs the ghosts, who then disappear into the opposite wall without another word. “Now, form a line and follow me,” she says to the students.

They leave the chamber and walk halfway back across the Entrance Hall until they finally enter the Great Hall through a pair of double doors.

It looks exactly as Draco’s parents had described: Thousands of candles hover over four long tables, covered with gold plates and goblets, where the rest of the students have already taken their seats.

Above each table hangs a huge banner from the ceiling; a yellow one with the Hufflepuff Badger on the left, a green one with the Slytherin Serpent, then blue with the Ravenclaw Eagle and red with the Gryffindor Lion on the right.

But the only really impressive sight for Draco is the velvet black ceiling of the Hall, which is dotted with stars and thus looks like the real night sky.

Already as a small child, he had spent hours looking at the constellations through a telescope, watching out for the dragon his parents named him after. Although his interests shifted when he got his first child broom and learned to fly when he was six years old, he looks forward to Astronomy classes.

They are led by McGonagall to the other end of the Hall, where they stand with their backs to the teachers’ table and look into hundreds of expectant faces. Draco notices the ghosts that have dotted among the students. The glow of the candles makes them shine misty silver.

McGonagall places a four-legged stool in front of the first-years and puts a dusty, multi-patched pointed hat on top of it - the Sorting Hat.

The idea of putting this ragged thing on his head, so that it decides on his future at Hogwarts, seems quite uncomfortable to Draco. At least, he will wear the hat before Weasley does …

After a few seconds of silence, the hat begins to move and shouts in a piercing voice:

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,

But don’t judge on what you see,

I’ll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.”

Since Draco has little interest in listening to a silly poem, he remembers the conversation with his mother a few days ago. They had watched the white peacocks in the garden as they spread their tail feathers.

_‘If you really have doubts, then just ask the hat to sort you into Slytherin. Surely he will do you the _ _favour_ _.’_

_‘I thought the hat decides on its own.’_

_‘Basically yes, but he is also willing to listen to you.'_

_‘So you did it the same way then?’_

_‘__Of_ _course__.’_

_‘But if it’s that easy, wouldn’t everyone be sorted into their _ _favourite_ _ house?’_

_‘I guess you are quite concerned about the Sorting compared to the other young witches and wizards.’_

_‘But the Sorting _is_ important, you said it yourself!’ _

She had glanced at him from the side, with the hint of a smile and that knowing expression he finds so annoying. _‘You’re thinking too much, just like your father. I am sure you will make it.’_

“Or perhaps in Slytherin

You’ll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don’t be afraid!

And don’t get in a flap!

You’re in safe hands (though I have none)

For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

Thereupon applause breaks out in the Hall; Draco looks annoyed at the ceiling.

McGonagall steps forward with a long roll of parchment in her hands. “When I call your name, you will sit on the stool and get the hat put on to be sorted.”

After she unrolls the parchment, there are some sortings for Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, accompanied by thunderous applause from the respective tables for the newcomers. Draco’s gaze wanders impatiently through the Hall as the hat shouts ‘SLYTHERIN!’ for the first time. The hat chose a chubby, brown-haired girl named Millicent Bulstrode. She kind of reminds him of a female version of Crabbe and Goyle.

“Crabbe, Vincent!”

Before Draco can give him a last, meaningful look, Crabbe rushes to the stool, as if it was a cream pie. He takes his seat and McGonagall places the hat on his head.

Draco holds his breath. Now it will turn out whether his mother was right (providing Crabbe doesn’t forget what to do again).

After a few seconds, ‘SLYTHERIN!’ sounds through the Hall once more. Draco feels his shoulders sag in relief. So it’s true - you can wish yourself into your house!

“Davis, Tracey!” McGonagall calls a first-year with light brown curls, while Draco watches longingly, how Crabbe is shaking hands at the Slytherin table. Shortly thereafter, the hat decides on Slytherin for the third time in a row; Davis jumps up and takes a seat opposite Crabbe.

After further sortings for Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, Goyle is called to the front. He nods to Draco and sits stiffly on the stool. It takes a little longer for Goyle than for Crabbe until the hat finally turns him into a Slytherin. He is followed by a very long-haired, blonde “Daphne Greengrass”.

When a fat boy named Longbottom something is called out, Draco wonders, if he had heard that name somewhere before (apart from being one of the old pure-blood families). He is selected for Gryffindor and starts running off - still wearing the hat and causing a heavy laughter. Shaking his head, Draco rejects his thought. How was he supposed to know such a lump?

“Malfoy, Draco!” McGonagall finally shouts.

_Okay. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in … Isn’t it possible that Crabbe and Goyle got into Slytherin by sheer luck? _

Casually he steps forward and takes a seat before gives the hat a sceptical look.

_Slytherin, got it? Don’t you dare to put me somewhere else!_

McGonagall extends her arm in slow motion.

_SLYTHERIN-SLYTHERIN-SLYTHER-_

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat shouts just before he even touches his head.

Draco beams - he did it!

Triumphantly, he swaggers to the green decorated table, where his new comrades greet him with handshakes and patting on the back. He takes a seat between Crabbe and Goyle and opposite the other first-years Davis, Bulstrode and Greengrass.

“It worked!” Goyle chuckles excitedly. “Ask your mum if she knows any more tricks.”

Before Draco can reply, a tall, blond student next to Davis says, “I think you broke the record. The hat has probably never decided on a house so fast!”

For Draco, the time on the stool had seemed as an eternity, but he answers, “I knew I don’t belong anywhere else. Slytherin has a long tradition in my family.”

The student nods approvingly. “Good! In Slytherin, traditions are still valued. You’re the son of Lucius Malfoy, right? I’m Liam Bletchley - Prefect.”

While Draco shakes his hand, another first-year is greeted by the Slytherins. Draco didn’t notice his sorting, but he knows his name nonetheless: Theodore Nott, a lanky boy with reddish-brown hair. He spent a lot of time with him when they were toddlers, until his mother died. Since then, Nott and his father live a secluded life.

Some metres further forward, where seats are still left, a girl with black curls beckons him over. When Nott passes Draco, the two curtly nod at each other.

Crabbe, who never liked Nott, mumbles, “What a bore.”

“Then ignore him,” Draco says sharply. He has no need to socialise with Nott, but doesn’t want to clash with him, neither. That just wouldn’t be right.

Soon after, Nott is followed by two girls who sit down next to him. Sally-Anne Perks wears glasses and a blond ponytail. The other one, Pansy Parkinson, is quite short and would probably appear even shorter if she wouldn’t wear her nose up in the air. She has a dark pageboy haircut with an odd, glittering circlet.

Draco’s mother owns tons of stuff like that, too, and he never understood why. But he knows that, even if they’re all classmates, he will be just fine without the company of girls. He glances at Greengrass and Bulstrode, who are constantly playing with their hair and jewelry. They probably don’t even know a thing about Quidditch!

The only respectable thing about them is the fact, that they belong to the British wizarding families who have remained pure-blooded until this day, which means their families didn’t get involved with Muggles. In fact, there is an official list of these families, and Draco’s father had made sure that he memorised the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight before he was able to read or write.

“Potter, Harry!”

Suddenly, whispers break out throughout the Hall. Some students rise from their benches to have a better view. Draco grins; Potter makes a face as if the hat would bite him any moment.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

There is an ear-deafening applause from the table on the right outside. “We got Potter! We got Potter!”

Most Slytherins pretend like nothing happened and try to talk over the noise.

“Like monkeys in the zoo,” Bletchley says, shaking his head, while Draco watches gleefully how Potter sits down opposite one of the ghosts who pats his arm (because touching a ghost feels like bathing in ice water).

His gaze wanders to the teacher’s table, where - for some reason - the unkempt gamekeeper sits as well and gives Potter the thumbs-up. Next to him, McGonagall is talking animatedly to Albus Dumbledore.

His hair and beard is very long and silvery, he wears a blue robe with yellow stars, and half-moon-shaped glasses on his long, crooked nose.

According to Dracos father, this is the most incompetent headmaster Hogwarts has ever seen. Quite rightly, considering that he had allowed more Muggle-born students to come to the school than everyone before him. But there’s no place for them in the small wizarding community, because if wizards and witches keep mingling with Muggles, in a few hundred years - maybe even decades - there will be no magic left at all! And it’s a shame that more and more people are closing their eyes to this truth these todays.

Fortunately, Severus Snape is not one of them. The Head of Slytherin house, whom Draco has met a few times, is talking to a teacher with a strange turban on his head. Snape himself has lank black hair, dark eyes and a sallow skin, as if he would avoid sunlight at all costs.

He is a former schoolfriend of his parents and teaches Potions - so Draco shouldn’t be too concerned about his grading in this subject.

Now that Potter’s buddy Weasley has been sent to Gryffindor, there’s only one student left to be sorted; a dark-skinned boy named Blaise Zabini. He doesn’t really seem to care about the hats decision and joins the Slytherin table with a bored expression.

The Sorting Ceremony has finally come to an end, because McGonagall rolls up the parchment and carries the hat away. Then Dumbledore gets up, smiling with arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. “Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!” he says. “Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”

_What was that? Is the old man slowly going senile?_

Dumbledore sits down again and the Hall applauds and cheers him - except for the Slytherins, who exchange meaningful glances.

“Is he okay?” Davis asks Bletchley irritated.

He smiles awry. “Exactly what I thought on my first day five years ago.”

Suddenly there is a plopping noise; a large selection of food appears on the dishes in front of them.

Without hesitation, Crabbe piles several slices of roast beef and bacon, a roast chicken, a pork chop and two sausages on his plate. Draco picks a steak and chip potatoes. The food tastes great, even slightly better than what he is used to from home, where the meals are prepared and served by Dobby, his family’s house elf. Satisfied with himself and the world, he takes a big sip of pumpkin juice.

Suddenly, Greengrass grabs Bulstrodes arm, points at something next to Draco and cries, “Millie, look!!”

He spins around - and almost chokes. A ghost has taken a seat between him and Goyle (who whimpers quietly), and unlikely the ghosts they met in the chamber before, this one seems to be rather … grumpy. He is hung with iron chains and his robes are covered with large splatters of silver blood.

Draco has no doubt; this is the Bloody Baron, Slytherins house ghost.

Involuntarily, he slips closer to Crabbe, who is chewing frantically, as if he fears the ghost could take his plate away from him.

“I hope you enjoy your meal,” the ghost grumbles, as if he doesn’t mean it at all.

Bletchley has also noticed the weird visitor and nods to him. “Baron, it’s an honour, as always.”

“Why is his robe full of blood?” Bulstrode shrills.

While the Baron looks at her angrily, Bletchley clears his throat, “Baron, I just heard Peeves is doing mischief with the suit of armour on the fifth floor.”

Slowly, the ghost turns his head to him. “For the third time today! That fool is trying my patience!” With a grim expression, he rises up in the air before he finally leaves the Hall.

Bulstrode and Greengrass sigh with relief, whereas Goyle looks as if he has lost his appetite.

Bletchley stifles a laugher. “You better get used to him, you’ll see him frequently. And if you want to get rid of him, just mention our poltergeist Peeves. And always be polite!” He turns to Bulstrode. “Your question was inappropriate.”

“How should I know?” she calls defensively.

Davis shakes her curly head. “Don’t take it personally, that Baron probably doesn’t even like himself very much.”

“Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered,” says Dumbledore, getting up again. “I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First-years should note that the forest in the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.”

_“Oh, I will!” _Draco thinks determinedly, even though he knows that first-years are only admitted into the Quidditch team in exceptional cases. Because, coincidentally, he is an exceptional talent and his father said, it would be a crime if he is not picked to play for his house!

However, he’s still fuming about the stupid rule that first-years aren’t allowed to have their own brooms, so his beloved Comet Two Sixty is now getting dusty in his room until Christmas break.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand sight is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke, too?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Apparently not,” Blecthley says slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Dumbledore. “But don’t worry, we will go into the matter. He’s talking about a corridor that’s accessible to everyone, though …”

Draco wonders if his father is informed of the dangerous corridor. He surely is … but wouldn’t he have told him to stay away from it?

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” Dumbledore says cheerfully. He gives his wand a little flick until a long, golden thread ribbon flies out of it, which rises high above the tables and twists itself into words. “Everyone pick their favourite tune - and off we go!”

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please -”

_Please not!_

To Draco’s displeasure, Davis and Bulstrode try loudly to outdo each other with their awful singing skills. He covers his ears and watches in disbelief how many students - except for most of the Slytherins - join that singsong.

At last, barely two students stop singing at the same time and Dumbledore claps loudest. “Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here!” the old man says ecstatic.

“Music? I don’t think so,” Draco mumbles.

“And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

Thereupon, Bletchley gets up and gestures vividly to gain attention over the noise of rising voices. “All Slytherin first-years come with me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Liam” Bletchley is not canon, but in this story, he is a sixth-year Prefect and the older brother of Miles Bletchley (a Quidditch player for Slytherin).


	3. Welcome to the Dungeon

* * *

_A name is a birthright;_ _it decides whether you are part of the upper class or merely wish you were._

* * *

Grateful for not having to endure this noise any longer, Pansy searches the room for Parvati and Padma while standing on tiptoe.

She’s kind of surprised that all three of them were chosen for different houses - and she bets that Parvati now curses herself for wanting to be in Gryffindor! Because that’s exactly where the hat put her, along with Hermione Beaver-Teeth and Toadboy Longbottom (whatever the hat saw in him, it has nothing to do with bravery, that’s for sure). Certainly, Hufflepuff and Slytherin don't seem so bad to Parvati anymore. 

Padma, on the other hand, has done well, and Pansy is looking forward to visit her in the Ravenclaw Tower, where her father once lived. 

Unlike some other students, who sent silent prayers when McGonagall called them, the Sorting had not been a big deal for Pansy. Actually, when she sat down on the stool, she was busy wondering if this shabby hat has a brain, which was quite a creepy imagination ...

Anyway, she is satisfied with its choice, which did not fell on Ravenclaw as expected - but on Slytherin. Slytherin means that Pansy is focused on her goals, and that’s what she has to be to become like her big role model: her mother, whose fashion company she will take over one day.

Besides, green suits her well.

The first people she shook hands with at the Slytherin table were Theodore Nott, who struggled keeping his hair off his face, and the sixth-year Prefect Amanda Turner, who told something about her first day at Hogwarts. Pansy barely listened as she was envying Amanda for her porcelain face and shiny, black wavy hair.

She wasn’t distracted until a dark-skinned boy with prominent cheekbones joined the table and introduced himself as ‘Blaise Zabini’. When she involved him in a conversation, it turned out that he is indeed the son of Francesca Zabini, the famous model. But since all boys are boring, he soon started to talk about Quidditch teams with Nott. 

While sitting next to her, Pansy had ignored Sally-Anne Perks, a girl with a messy knotted ponytail and thick glasses, but now she taps her on the shoulder and nods at the other Slytherin first-year girls. “Do you know their names?” 

(Pansy didn’t pay much attention during the ceremony. She and Parvati were busy suppressing their laughter, because of Hermione, Professor McGonagall, Longbottom and other ugly or dumb looking people.)

“Yes ... um, that’s Daphne Greengrass -” Sally-Anne mumbles, pointing at a well-dressed girl with golden, hip-length hair and green eyes. She has a small tooth gap between her front teeth, which seems to be her only blemish. 

_Bother!_

“Next to her, Millicent Bulstrode -”

Pansy disparagingly looks at the plump, brunette girl; she had never sympathised with people who are overweight. 

“And Tracey Davis.”

To be fair, Tracey _could_ look pretty good, with her caramel skin tone and curls, if she wasn’t dressed like a boy. Pansy just can't imagine what kind of a girl would wear trousers instead of a skirt, worn out sneakers, or no jewellery at all.

As they follow Amanda and another sixth-year student through the crowd and out of the Great Hall, she casts a glance at three boys who also have made it into Slytherin.

One of them is the broad-shouldered guy she nearly bumped into on the Hogwarts Express this morning. The second one is just as big and broad, but rather wobbly than muscular, whereas the third one looks small and slender compared to them. Pansy probably wouldn’t have looked twice at him if it wasn’t for his extraordinary hair colour, which is nearly white.

To the left of the large marble staircase, they stop in front of a stone spiral staircase that leads downwards. 

Amanda’s classmate is tall, blond and, despite his robes, recognisable athletic. Maybe Pansy will wake up one day in her sixth year and be outrageously good-looking as well.

“My name is Liam Bletchley, this is my lovely colleague Amanda Turner, and we are your Prefects,” he explains. “For those who don’t know yet: The entire Slytherin area is located underground, so you’ll follow us into the dungeon.” 

Dungeon? Pansy hopes this is a bad joke! Now that she lives in such a huge castle, she has to sleep in the cellar? While the Ravenclaws live in light-flooded towers? Not acceptable!

Just as she’s about to protest, Amanda adds with a wink, “Trust me, this sounds worse than it is. Wait and see.”

Pansy folds her arms. Should the dormitories be even remotely unsuitable, she will personally complain to Dumbledore this evening!

Slowly, they walk down the staircase. Pansy feels colder with every step.

_What next? _

Almost burned down candles are flickering from the grey walls and give just enough light that one doesn’t miss the steps. When they reach the bottom, their path leads through a narrow corridor.

Bletchley points at a door on the right. “This is the Potions classroom, and opposite Professor Snape’s office, the Head of Slytherin house.” 

The corridor bends several times until they’re facing a labyrinth-like tunnel entrance. “From here on, you must keep to the right. Only right, very simple. I don’t recommend that you explore the other passageways, especially not alone. You wouldn’t be the first to get lost, and we have better things to do than spending hours searching for you.” 

The first-years’ whispering stops. They follow their Prefects until their way eventually dead-ends in front of a stone wall.

“This,” Bletchley says, tapping his finger against the wall, “is the entrance to our common room. It’s protected by a password written on the back of this wall and it changes irregularly. Before we lead you into our hallowed halls, one more thing: Nobody but us is supposed to be here, got it?” He looks around sternly; everyone nods obediently. “Good. So always make sure that students from other houses don’t follow you down here. This happens more often than you might think. Amanda?”

Amanda clears her throat, turns to the wall and says, “Onyx,” whereupon a hidden stone door slides into the wall.

Pansy gets ready for the worst - and is stunned. Nothing about this large room she’s now entering reminds her of a dungeon.

The entrance podium is decorated with oil paintings of famous witches and wizards, including Morgana and Merlin. Ornate wall lamps and countless candles bathe the room in a pleasantly warm light. Wing chairs and stuff like magazines, parchment scrolls and card games are all over the place, making the atmosphere even cosier.

Although there are floor-to-ceiling windows, the glasses are blacked-out (Pansy wonders why an underground room requires windows anyway).

On the left, next to a long table and two sofas, an open fireplace is crackling. Opposite, there is a door in a wall recess, with steps leading downwards both sides.

The back of the room is obviously intended for studying, as there are bookshelves and single desks.

Apart from the lack of daylight, Pansy is quite satisfied with what she sees. 

Slowly, the excited murmuring falls silent and the first-years look at Bletchley expectantly.

He smiles. “Pride, ambition, cunning. Resourcefulness, traditionalism, fraternity. These are the qualities _he_ was looking for in his students.” He points at a portrait of a man with a long, white beard in dark green robes. “Salazar Slytherin, co-founder of Hogwarts and one of the greatest wizards of his time. We’d like to congratulate you because you are now part of Hogwarts’ Elite. The Sorting Hat saw the potential to achieve great things in each and every one of you. So don’t make the mistake of underestimating yourself or the person standing next to you.

_‘Wouldn’t think of it,’ _Pansy thinks sarcastically, watching the broad-shouldered boy who stares at his index finger as if he saw it for the first time. 

“Slytherins play to win. The House Cup has been ours for six years, the Quidditch Cup for five years.” 

The white-haired boy whistles in approval. 

“Determination is a virtue; we know what we want, and we’ll work for it until we get it. This attitude doesn’t make us very popular with the other houses, and that’s why cohesion is written with a capital C here. You will never see Slytherins fighting or talking bad about each other. We respect, support and look after our own. Towards the other houses we present a united front. Whatever happens or is said within these walls, you won’t tell anyone. Should conflicts arise between you, which I do not hope, you will resolve them, quickly. 

As you can see, loyalty is not reserved for Hufflepuffs alone, even though it’s one of their most common traits. But we understand ‘loyalty’ differently than they do. We care about the sense of community _within_ our house - during our time at Hogwarts, and afterwards. Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin.”

Bletchley pauses.

“Woah, that was a speech!” says Tracey impressed. Some students chuckle, but Pansy finds this comment rather childish.

“Yes, yes, well said, Liam,” Amanda smiles. “I just want to add a few things. You’re certainly enthusiastic for your first day of school tomorrow. You should know, however, that you will not only experience distrust but also open hostility from other students.” Amanda’s expression becomes serious. “It has gotten worse over the last twenty years. Maybe you already know that the rumour is true - He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was one of us.”

A few first-years seem to be dismayed, some embarrassed, and others keep a straight face as if Amanda had just told them what time it is. Pansy inevitably thinks about Parvati’s words during the train ride. 

“Hogwarts - and Slytherin house - have existed for over thousand years, but it took only one single wizard to label us as being into the Dark Arts. I’m not denying that we have produced several evil witches and wizards over the decades, just like the other three houses - but they prefer to brush this fact under the carpet. On the other hand, do you know which former Slytherin is rarely mentioned? Merlin, the most famous and powerful magician of all time! Even the Muggles know him, and everything he knew he learned in this house. Long story short: It’s great being in Slytherin, don’t let anyone tell you different. At the end of the day, this is a place to learn and to prepare you for the future.

And finally, a word on organisational matters: There are three meals a day, which you take in the Great Hall. Classes start at 9 o’clock. We’ll walk you to the classrooms during the first week. This is not part of our job, but the castle will seem to you like a labyrinth, and delays could cost us house points. Curfew is from 10 PM to 6 AM. During this time you may leave the common room only with a teacher’s permission or in case of emergency, but you can stay here 24 hours to learn or just hang out.

Oh, and as already mentioned, our Head of house is Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, and let me tell you, his expectations are high! He requires obedience, discipline and good manners. He will also discuss your progress and any need to catch up regularly. And believe me, that’s a good thing. Very few teachers do that. Well, maybe in the fifth year, right before your OWL tests, when it’s too late for a lot of things. So be grateful that he makes time for you.” 

Grinning, Bletchley adds, “He comes across, as if he doesn’t like anyone. But don’t be fooled; deep in his heart he has reserved a place for his Slytherins.”

“Are you going to say that to his face, too?” asks Amanda, smirking.

“Not for 10,000 Galleons.” 

“I thought so ... well, that’s it for today. If any questions occur, no matter what, you can always come to us.” Amanda points to wall recess. “The boys’ dorms are left, the girls’ dorms right. By the way, the windows here are blacked-out only for today, otherwise you wouldn’t have listened to us. You'll find out the reason for that in your dormitories ... Well then, have sweet dreams!” she says with a wink and Bletchley and her leave the common room.

Curious about what the dormitories look like, the first-years don’t waste time. The girls follow the right steps down to a long corridor with doors on each side. 

“I’m so excited, Millie,” Daphne chuckles. They are apparently friends with each other, which irritates Pansy, because Daphne could easily surround with prettier people. 

When they open a door with a glowing silver inscription _Class 2000,_ Winston welcomes them with a miaow. Pansy picks him up and enters the room first. 

For a moment, there is silence. Everyone seems to be speechless.

Next to a mahogany wardrobe there are two four-poster beds on the left and three on the right wall. They’re made of dark teak, with numerous ornaments on the headboard and the spiral posts. They are decorated with shiny silver curtains, green velvet cushions and silk blankets. Next to the beds are night stands, and dark wooden trunks at the footboard. The floor is mostly covered with antique rugs, and from the ceiling hangs a black chandelier with chains of sparkling emerald. 

But all this is nothing compared to what they see on the opposite wall: Like in the common room, there are floor-to-ceiling windows, but they aren’t blacked-out. Instead, the girls are looking at an underwater landscape as if they were standing in front of a huge aquarium. The natural water colouring bathes the entire room in a relaxing, cool green. 

Immediately, Daphne, Tracey and Millicent rush forward and press their noses against the glass. Pansy is pleasantly surprised. The decor may be a little old-fashioned, but of high quality. She won’t have to ask Dumbledore for a more convenient accommodation.

Since she can enjoy the view later, she takes the opportunity to snag the bed on the left window side. She places her robes on it and sits down. A glance into her pocket mirror reveals that it has been a long day. While she begins to unpack her suitcase, the girls still can’t break loose from the windowpanes.

“Wooow!” Tracey shouts. “Is that a trick?”

“The dungeon is under the lake of Hogwarts,” Millicent says, as if stating the obvious.

“Your parents weren’t in Slytherin?” 

“No, my mum was in Gryffindor and my dad’s a Muggle.” 

“Oh ... I see.” 

“Yes,” Tracey says cheerfully. “He works for the Criminal Investigation Department in London. It’s like the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But he’s quite sensitive when it comes to magic and stuff, that’s why we’ve never talked much about it at home.”

“Well then, if you have any questions, just count on me, I’ll tell you everything you need to know. That really doesn’t bother me,” replies Millicent patronisingly. She reminds Pansy of Hermione a little. 

Daphne looks at Tracey fascinated. “I’ve never met anyone half-blooded.”

“Apart from me,” says Sally-Anne, sitting on the bed diagonally across Pansy’s, her voice squeaky and her smile nervous. “I’m Sally ... my mother is not a witch, but I haven’t seen her for a long time. She lives in Japan.”

Daphne laughs. “You too? Can’t believe it. That’s so funny, Millie, isn’t it?” 

“Mhm ... and what about you?” Millicent asks, looking at Pansy hopefully.

“Pansy Parkinson. My dad was in Ravenclaw, my mother went to a school in France.”

“Ah, your family is one of the Twenty-Eight. Pleased to meet you! I’m Millicent Bulstrode, and these are my best friends: Daphne Greengrass, and Lady.” 

Only now Pansy notices the second cat in the room, lying majestically on the bed opposite hers. She’s a dark brown tabby cat with long hair and white paws, and just like Daphne, way too pretty for Millicent. 

“Hasn’t there been a Minister for Magic named Parkinson ages ago? Is he an ancestor of yours?” 

“Yes. Do you know where the bathroom is?” 

“Um, I think so.” Sally points over her shoulder at a narrow door between her bed and the wall. 

“Oh, let’s have a look,” says Millicent. “I heard that the bathrooms have been renovated recently.”

The turquoise tiled bathroom is practical but pretty. It has three toilet stalls, three showers and a wide basin. Above there is a large, round mirror framed with silver snakes and a Medusa head on top. 

As they leave the bathroom, Pansy’s eyes fall on the wardrobe, and she realises, this may be a problem. “How are we going to put all our stuff in there? I have plenty of clothes!” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Millicent. “My mother said the wardrobes are issued with an extension charm, so the interior dimension increases depending on our requirements. You just don’t see it from outside.” 

Pansy gives her a fake smile. 

“I don’t need much space anyway,” says Sally. 

Tracey throws herself on the bed next to Pansy, with her shoes still on _(Mum would lose it!)_ and folds her arms behind her head. “Me neither, maybe I just keep everything in my suitcase.”

“But then everything will crumple,” Pansy says blankly, hanging her blouses in the closet. She notices clothing and accessories which probably belong to the school uniforms: ties, bow tie collars and woollen scarves, all striped in their house colours green and silver, plus a set of black plaid skirts, white shirts, grey slipover and cardigans. Pansy hopes they’re allowed to wear their own clothes at least at weekends ... 

She watches Winston trying to greet Lady with a nose touch, but she just glares at him and puts her paw on his face.

As the others begin to unpack, Millicent tells Tracey all about the Sacred Twenty-Eight and which ‘members’ she has already met in person. “As for the boys in our class, Theodore Nott belongs to them, and Draco Malfoy, of course. Surely you’ve heard this name before.”

Pansy looks up in surprise. “Malfoy?” 

“Yep. Sat with us during the feast. Light-blond hair.”

“Why should I know him?” Tracey asks curiously. 

Millicent looks at her in disbelief. “The Malfoys are one the richest families in England and highly respected. They have influential connections to the Ministry and are practically royal in our world!” 

Pansy snorts in amusement. Practically royal? She finds this term a little silly. Granted, a name is a birthright; it decides whether you are part of the upper class or merely wish you were. And being a Malfoy opens doors, but so does Parkinson!

“What do you think of Dumbledore?” Tracey suddenly asks, sitting up. “I mean, he’s friendly and stuff, but he is a bit bonkers, isn’t he?” 

Sally looks thoughtful. “Most of all, I wonder what’s up with the corridor he talked about. Sounds pretty disturbing ...” 

“Liam said he will get to the bottom of it.” Daphne sighs and twists a strand of hair around her finger. “That’s so brave of him ...” 

Rolling her eyes, Millicent plonks herself down on her bed, causing her cat to start from her sleep. “Here we go again!”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know perfectly well what I mean! He’s a sixth-year, Daphne - you don’t think you really have a chance, do you?” 

_Yuck ... Daphne likes boys?!_

“Liam, eh?” Tracey grins. “Not bad.” 

“Hah - not bad?” Millicent looks amused. “I’ll tell you something, it’s always the same. Daphne gets a crush on the most unattainable boys!” 

Daphne crosses her arms. “Totally not true …”

“Oh come on, who was it just one month ago? Do you want me to say it?” 

“I have no idea who you are tal-” 

“Henry. You know, that English Muggle prince. Well, next to him, Bletchley is really down to earth, of course.” 

“The thing with _Harry_ was a misunderstanding ... and I don’t care what you say. If Liam falls in love with me, you’ll look pretty stupid!” Daphne sticks out her tongue at her friend.

“Err, yes! I would!” 

“Besides, I wanted to ask Pansy something all along,” she says, pointing at the robes on Pansy’s bed. “Is that silk? It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, my mum made it for me.” 

Millicent picks up the robes and frowns. “But that’s impossible, there’s a label - _Gemma Fawley Designs_.” 

“Indeed.”

“So?”

Pansy takes the robes from her. “My mother’s first name is Gemma, and Fawley is her maiden surname.” 

“Shut up!” Millicent stares at her open-mouthed while Daphne gasps for air; then both beam, as if it was Christmas morning.

“Merlin, I had no idea! My mother will freak out if I tell her!”

“Your mum’s a designer? Wow!” says Tracey impressed. “Well, as for fashion, I’m more practically-minded.” 

Millicent gives Pansy a meaningful look before she and Daphne bombard her with questions. Pansy can’t blame them, they probably live a boring life like most people. Luckily, Pansy’s parents can afford an exciting life, even if it means being surrounded by annoying people from time to time.

But that’s okay, if she needs a break, she can hang with Parvati and Padma. 

Some time later, it has become quiet in the dormitory. Pansy snuggles down into her soft bed next to Winston and turns to the side.

Small, shimmering fish are swimming by the windows, and aquatic plants are swaying in a soothing rhythm. She puts on her sleep mask and listens to the lake water, gently lapping against the windows.

Just before she falls asleep, the haunting voice echoes in her head: _‘_

_Hmm, let’s see ... ah, I think we’ve got a classic case here. I’m mildly surprised you don’t beg me, like so many did before. _ _Clever ... disciplined ... stubborn. But kind of insecure as well ... you are afraid to disappoint, to be ordinary. You would go very far to succeed, oh yes, but it’s not Ravenclaw that will pave your way there. I have no doubt - you won’t fare better anywhere else than in ... SLYTHERIN!’_

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Millicent takes turns at admiring Pansy’s diamond earrings, rebuking Tracey for her dress code violation (as she refused to wear a skirt), and making derogatory remarks about Harry Potter. “What does everyone see in him? He looks so ... average.” 

Pansy, who resists commenting on that, generously sprinkles cinnamon and sugar on her pancakes, her favourite dish.

Daphne tilts her head to one side. “Hmm, I think he’s kind of cute.”

Millicent puts down her cutlery noisily. 

“I mean, for a Gryffindor!” Daphne adds hastily. “I’m faithful to Liam, of course.” 

“You should give Crabbe and Goyle a chance.” With a smirk, Millicent looks over to the first-year boys who are sitting a few metres away. While eating, Crabbe and Goyle don’t even try to close their mouths.

Disgusted, Pansy averts her gaze and watches the other students. Most of them don’t even use their napkin, rest their elbows on the table and gesture with cutlery in their hands. The only one with impeccable table manners in sight - apart from herself, of course - is Draco Malfoy. However, when he raises his voice to announce that his parents donated money for renovating all bathrooms in the dungeon last year, Pansy turns around to the Gryffindor table annoyed. 

In her opinion, describing Harry Potter as ‘kind of cute’ is a joke. His dark hair is a mess, his round, ugly glasses are partly broken and his face is one of the most boring things she has ever seen.

The next moment, Amanda appears at the table, smiling. “Good Morning!”

“Ooh, what a pity ...,” Millicent whispers to Daphne. 

“I’ve got your timetables here.” She gives Sally a stack of papers to hand them over to the others. 

“All right, your first class today is … History of Magic.” Amanda smiles hesitantly. “The classroom is on the first floor, Room 4F. So, let’s go.”

When leaving the Great Hall, Pansy discovers Parvati and Padma and waves at them. Padma returns the greeting, but Parvati doesn’t seem to notice her. 

“Will you accompany us the whole week?” Daphne asks Amanda, ignoring Millicent’s mocking expression. 

“Not when I beat Liam in rock-paper-scissors tomorrow. I should have known he would pick rock - very resourceful!” 

They climb up the large marble staircase. 

“How many steps left?” Crabbe moans. 

Amanda laughs. “Be glad that this is a _bog-standard_ staircase, one of 142, to be exact. Some really need getting used to; they change directions as it suits them or simply don’t want to “work” on Fridays. Others have trick steps that disappear, so you always have to be careful.”

“My father says, you get used to it quickly,” says Malfoy unimpressed.

“Your parents may have explained a few things to you before, but you’ll still need a while to find your way around. Most corridors look the same, and the objects aren’t very helpful either. The suits of armour move around, and did I mention the portraits? They like to visit each other constantly.” 

Suddenly, a high-pitched giggle sounds above their heads. “Woohoo, newbies at Hogwarts - that means fun for good old Peevsy!”

A small man with a bell-covered hat, orange bow tie and a broad, insidious grin is floating in the air. 

“Peeves, get lost!” Amanda exclaims without looking up.

“THIS is Hogwarts’ poltergeist?” asks Pansy incredulous. 

“Unfortunately.”

“He looks like a clown,” Blaise Zabini says disparagingly. 

While the poltergeist throws pieces of chalk at some Ravenclaws, Amanda says, “Don’t worry, he won’t prank you unless you challenge him. Apart from Dumbledore, there’s only one who Peeves is afraid of: the Bloody Baron, our house ghost.”

Millicent whimpers. 

“Some of you met him last night, didn’t you?” Amanda fails trying not to grin. “Your shrieks were hard to miss.” 

Pansy always wondered why people are afraid of ghosts. Apart from poltergeists or demons, ghosts are quite harmless, after all.

“But he was terribly scary!” Daphne explains with eyes wide open.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover. He is okay if you know how to handle him. For example, I would never trade him for Ravenclaw’s Grey Lady,” Amanda says, cringing as if a shiver runs down her spine. “She looks nice, but I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with her ... anyway, even Peeves has one good quality: He regularly manages to infuriate our caretaker. Don’t get in Filch’s way, that guy is a choleric! Everybody hates him because he dedicates his life to catch students breaking the school rules and to threaten them with torture or expulsion! No one understands how Dumbledore could hire him ...”

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle chuckle over something.

“And his cat, Mrs Norris, is almost worse,” Amanda continues.

“Cats are great!” Pansy says indignantly and Millicent agrees promptly.

“Not this creature! She’s on patrol everywhere - if you take one false step, she whizzes to her master who appears two seconds later. The best bet is to avoid them both.”

They have reached the first floor in quite a spell, but the corridors are long and, like Amanda said, confusing. Along the way, they pass by other first-years asking ghosts or portraits for directions. In fact, the Slytherins are the only ones who are accompanied to their classes. 

But Pansy also notes something else: Every time other students cross their paths, they seem to be watching the Slytherins out from the corner of their eyes, lowering their voices and making more way for them than necessary. Maybe they want to behave particularly well in the presence of a Prefect? 

After a few more minutes, they stop.

“This is Professor Binns’ classroom. The Hufflepuffs will join you soon, I suppose. See you later ... I hope you are all well rested.” “Hardly likely, thanks to Crabbe’s snoring,” mumbles Nott.

As they enter the classroom, they are greeted by a musty odour. There are long benches on both sides and the teachers’ desk at the other end of the room. They all sit down in a row; much to Pansy’s displeasure, Millicent sits down next to her. The ancient looking desks are in a bad state.

On her desk, Pansy discovers a heart with initials inside, a cartoon-like drawing of an owl, and the words ‘Slytherin sucks! J.P.’.

Angrily, she hides the scribbling with her textbook.

Shortly thereafter, the Hufflepuff first-years barge in and take a seat on the opposite bench. Their smiles fade quickly as the Slytherin boys give them quite disparagingly looks. This whole house rivalry nonsense seems to be a bigger issue than Pansy would have thought ... 

Suddenly, two Hufflepuffs scream and Millicent startles; a ghost has just floated through the blackboard on the wall into the classroom. He has a half bald head, a moustache and wears a monocle.

Pansy finds the idea of a ghost as a teacher quite strange - on the other hand, who could teach history better than someone who _is_ history?

Slowly and monotonously, as if he were very tired, he says, “My name is Professor Binns. In this class, we will delve into the colourful, fascinating History of Magic and all its eras.” He sighs. “Please turn to page three in your textbook.” 

“Okay ... wow,” Tracey mumbles suspiciously, and Daphne pouts, “There aren’t any pictures in there!”

Binns starts the lesson by telling them about the origins of magic in their world. The topic itself would’ve been boring enough, but to make matters worse, Binns’ voice has the same effect as a strong sleeping potion. It doesn’t take long for the first-years to feel their eyelids getting heavier. And heavier.

Pansy hadn’t imagined her first lesson at Hogwarts this way … She decides to use the time and write a letter to her parents. Sighing, she unrolls her parchment.

_Hello Mum, hello Dad, _

_from what I’ve seen so far, Hogwarts is huge. It feels like an eternity to get from A to B. _

_I always thought I’d be in Ravenclaw, like you, Dad, but now I’m in Slytherin. What do you say? _

_Our rooms are nicely decorated, even though they are in the dungeon. I’ll tell you all about it when we meet again. _

_The uniforms aren’t very modern, but acceptable. _ _Mum, I hope your new collection is proceeding well. _ _One of my classmates is Francesca Zabini’s son. Did you ever meet her? _

_I_ _’m fine, and Winston too. He tries to befriend the cat of a roommate, but she prefers to sleep instead of playing. I think she finds him a bit annoying. _

_Pansy _

Meanwhile, half of the Hufflepuffs have dozed off, and Millicent is focused on plaiting Daphne’s hair, but Binns is so absorbed in his narrative that he either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care. Sally is the only one making notes. 

At the end of the lesson, Amanda is already waiting outside. She looks at them pitiful. “I know. Not a great start, huh?”

Malfoy shrugs. “It’s not like we didn’t learn anything. Now we know how Binns died: He was bored to death by his own lessons.”

The students giggle. 

“And I’m afraid you’ll have to endure Binns the entire seven years. There is no other history teacher.” 

“That makes sense, he will hardly get sick,” says Zabini.

“And Dumbledore saves a salary.” Tracey shrugs. “I mean, right?”

Goyle answers with a loud yawn.

Later that day, they went to Charms class on the third floor, taught by the very small Professor Flitwick, a half-human, half-goblin wizard, as he told them.

He appreciated Amanda’s willingness to accompany the first-years to their classrooms so much, that he gave twenty points to Slytherin - their first success in the competition for the House Cup, which is awarded to the house with the most points at the end of the school year.

Although some had to giggle when Flitwick climbed onto a stack of books to look over the teacher's desk, everyone liked him, as well as his class, which turned out to be completely different than History of Magic. 

Flitwick began with a theoretical part: _‘Turning a teacup into a mouse is a transformation spell - making a teacup dance is a charm, which is exactly what you will learn here.’ _Shortly thereafter, they finally pulled their wands out of their pockets, and learned how to open a locked door with the spell “Alohomora”.

Now, after school hours, Pansy and the girls walk through a corridor opposite the Great Hall that leads to a busy courtyard. Surrounded by cloister-like walls and columns, the courtyard lies at the base of a clock tower whose bell announces beginning and end of the classes and the curfew. In the centre is an antique, white fountain with a pear tree growing next to it.

“Where should we go?” Millicent asks Pansy. 

“Somewhere not so crowded.” 

“Back to the common room?” 

“No,” Pansy replies, though she doesn’t care. She points to a slope at the other end of the courtyard. “Let’s go there, maybe we can get to the lake.” 

As they reach the winding trail, Pansy notices Parvati and Padma a few metres away. “You go ahead, I’ll catch up,” she instructs the girls and walks over to the twins.

“Hey!” she greets them. 

They turn around; Padma smiles. “Hello.” 

Pansy grins at Parvati. “So, Gryffindor, huh? Along with Hermione … I’m really sorry for you.”

But Parvati is petrified. Maybe she is still in a bad mood because she ended up in a different house than her sister. 

“You were right, by the way.” Pansy sighs. “Slytherin is horrible! You should see our common room - skulls and bones, everywhere. Oh, and there is only one little candle, so we stumble around the whole time. And I can’t even talk about the initiation we had to go through. They said it’s necessary to make properly Dark wizards out of us. The older students don’t even have beds, they’re hanging from the ceiling at night!”

Now Padma snorts with laughter, but Parvati’s expression doesn’t change. “Do you think that’s funny?” 

“Um ... yes.” 

With a mixture of disgust and disappointment, Parvati gives her one last look before rushing towards the castle. 

“Pavi, wait!” Padma shouts after her, but to no avail. 

Pansy looks at her blankly. “Didn’t she get the joke?”

“She gets influenced easily. The Gryffindor’s opinion on Slytherin is pretty clear.” 

In this moment, Pansy remembers Amanda’s words last night, the students who dodged them in the hallways today and the scribbling on her desk in the classroom. So it’s true. Slytherins are Hogwarts’ outcasts … 

“Oh, is that so?” she asks defiantly. “And what about the Ravenclaws?”

Padma shakes her head. “Most of us aren’t into this rivalry thing. I'll talk to Parvati later.” 

Pansy laughs humourlessly. “Do what you want, but don’t expect me to run after her.” 

“I don’t. I mean, she’s my sister and she’s great - but it’s her problem if she doesn’t change her attitude.” 

That surprises Pansy. Padma seems to be way more mature than her twin. However, she isn’t very good in changing the subject. “Have you heard about Harry Potter?” 

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Yes, he’s our superhero. We already talked about him yesterday, remember?” 

“No, no, I mean what happened today! Supposedly, he and another boy tried to break a door somewhere,” she says, tapping her forehead. “Filch passed by of course and drove them away.”

“Idiot ... well, that can’t happen to us, because we’re accompanied to class the whole week.” 

“Oh,” Padma says approvingly. 

“Honestly, I can’t see why the other Prefects don’t do the same.”

“Well, I can’t speak for Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, but _we_ find the way ourselves. We’re the intelligent ones, you know.”

They both giggle. 

“I have to go now,” says Pansy. 

“Alright. Say hello to Winston.” Padma smiles and heads to the castle.

Before Pansy turns around, she stops for a moment and looks at the castle. The afternoon sun shines brightly on the old walls and towers, which is an even more beautiful view than by night.

“Hey, Ravenclaw!” she calls. “If we stick together, we can run this school.”

Padma responds with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the name Gemma Fawley before I read about “Gemma Farley”, the Slytherin Prefect according to Pottermore. I found Gemma suitable for someone working in the fashion industry, and I picked Fawley as it’s a name of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.


	4. Despicable P.

* * *

_“Do you realise who you’re talking to?”_

* * *

"What do you have today?" Bletchley asks on Friday morning.

While Goyle yawns loudly and Crabbe is busy choosing his breakfast, Draco happily waves the timetable. "Double Potions, with the Gryffindors."

_The Potter-, Weasley-, and Muggle-infested Gryffindors._

"Nice, you don't need me to get to Snape's classroom."

Marcus Flint, a dark haired boy, who has to repeat the fifth grade this year, laughs softly. "Oh oh, Snape's classroom is where the fun stops, isn't it, Bletchley?"

"I must say, I'm glad," Draco continues undeterred. "My father knows him, and he says he's very capable."

Unlike some other teachers, as Draco found out in the last few days.

Granted, not _all_ classes were a waste of time. The ghost professor's History lessons turned out to be quite restful as Draco could easily take a nap (what else should he do - listening? Impossible! Watching the Hufflepuffs, half of whom are probably Muggle-born? Certainly not!), and Charms with Professor Flitwick was actually kind of entertaining.

And then of course, there was his favourite subject, Astronomy. Some students struggled with the fact that class didn't start until midnight - including Crabbe and Goyle, who dabbled in a new type of sport: sleeping with their eyes open. Draco, however, focused on Professor Sinistra's lecture about how the positions of stars and planets influence the intensity of specific spells.

Later they studied the night sky with their telescopes and learned several constellation names, and since Draco already knew them, he received his first five points for Slytherin!

Unfortunately, the rest was pretty sobering:

In one of the greenhouses behind the castle, they had Herbology with the small and plump Professor Sprout. The Ravenclaws absorbed any boring information about herbs and mushrooms like a sponge, but Draco would never deign to dig in the dirt planting green stuff. So he memorised his timetable and passed the time wondering how his mother would react to the sight of Sprout's dirty fingernails (but he just couldn't decide between screaming, vomiting or fainting).

Their first Transfiguration lesson was even more amusing. While they were waiting for Professor McGonagall, Millicent Bulstrode called the grey tabby cat sitting on the teacher's desk to come to her. Only when Pansy Parkinson got up and started petting her, the cat suddenly moved - and turned into their teacher!

Except from Parkinson, who looked completely shocked, McGonagall earned admiring glances, but in her human form, the lesson were far less fun.

After a reeled off speech on what she would not tolerate in her class, she set them the task of turning matches into needles. Apart from the questionable purpose of the exercise, none of them came even close to succeeding. The only match that changed at all was Crabbe's, because it went up in flames and left nothing but a tiny pile of ash, and McGonagall's lips became even thinner than before.

But all that was nothing compared to Defence Against the Dark Arts with "Professor" Quirrell and his ridiculous purple turban.

Just sitting in his classroom was an imposition. The odour of something indefinable hung in the air, mixed with an acrid smell of garlic. To make things worse, it was tedious to follow Quirrell's words. He seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, unable to form a single sentence without stuttering, and he was constantly losing the thread, so no one knew what his point was.

Nott's sudden, loud sneeze threw Quirrell off the track for good; anxiously, he stammered something about a vampire from Romania, who allegedly chases him, and who is the obvious reason for this odour nuisance.

Draco seriously wonders what's going on in Dumbledore's brain for letting teach someone so incompetent at his school.

He begins to understand why his father originally wanted to send him to Durmstrang, a school in Eastern Europe. Although the curriculum is said to be very demanding from the first year on, Draco had been taught by the best private teachers in the country, after all. Besides, Durmstrang's Headmaster reasonably doesn't accept any Muggle-borns, whereas in Hogwarts, they mix with the pure-bloods and breathe the same air as a matter of course.

Draco almost loses his appetite just thinking about it (and Crabbe, who scoffs his porridge with a munching sound, doesn't help).

Nonetheless, his mother had insisted that Draco attends Hogwarts instead. Sure, his father could have started a discussion with her, but his mother didn't want his school to be that far away from home. Period. And even if his father would never admit it, she always has the final say. He knows it, Draco knows it, and probably all of Great Britain knows it.

"When does training start, Flint?" Bletchley asks, and Draco looks up immediately. Training?

"Tomorrow. Snape has blocked the field for the next six Saturday mornings. Looks like Wood has to throw over his schedule, hehe."

Bletchley snorts. "Before complaining, he'd better find a new seeker. Speaking of new, how's Miles doing?"

"Good. He's pretty fast and always focused."

"Pleased to hear that, but give him time to learn. Everyone knows you like to overdo it," Bletchley says without sounding rude.

"How touching! Are you going all big brother now?" Flint asks with a grin. "He'll be fine, and besides, I'm more worried about Higgs right now."

Draco clears his throat and tries to sound casual. "You're talking about Quidditch?"

Flint looks at him suspiciously. "That's right, kid. Let me guess: You're a brilliant flyer, much better than anyone else in your class and you want to join the team - _my_ team?"

"Flint", says Bletchley.

Under other circumstances, Draco would have retaliated, but this bigmouth is obviously the Slytherin team captain. If he blows it with him, he might as well plead with Potter and Weasley on his knees to befriend him, and since there is no way in hell that this will happen, he merely clenches his fist under the table and answers calmly, "Exactly."

He is proud of himself.

"What do you think, how many times I've heard this in the last four years? No, seriously - take a guess!"

Before Draco can say anything, Bletchley replies, "Well, Miles is just one year older than him and has convinced you, right?"

"False! _You_ convinced me to give him a chance. And to make that clear, I wouldn't have done this for everyone, and it was your luck that Miles proved his worth."

"You're such a sweetheart."

"Shut it."

Draco looks at them expectantly as suddenly Daphne Greengrass comes over and stops in front of Bletchley. "Um, Liam?"

He looks up in surprise. "Yes?"

"Did you, uh, find out something about the, um, forbidden corridor?"

_Who cares? We're talking about something much more important, stupid cow! _

"Not really, to be honest," Bletchley says seriously. "Dumbledore clammed up, but Amanda, the other Prefects and I will keep an eye on things. There is always one of us present on the third floor so that nobody will get any ideas. There's no need to worry, okay?"

With a crimson face, she whispers "Okay," before returning to the girls, where Tracey Davis giggles behind her hands.

Apparently, Draco has just missed a joke, because even Flint grins broadly, digging Bletchley with the elbow while looking at him meaningfully.

"You're disgusting," Bletchley says.

Draco's patience has finally run out. "So, what do I have to do?"

Slightly annoyed, Flint sighs. "You'll have flying lessons soon. If you convince Madam Hooch, we'll see. And that doesn't mean anything, just for the record!"

Draco nods curtly, though he's not smarter than before as Dumbledore had already mentioned a Madam Hooch in his speech. But then he will wait for the flying lesson (which is actually ridiculous, as he himself could teach how to fly).

Bletchley winks. "Don't take it personally. The Slytherin team is something like the love of Flint's life."

"I'm going to tell the little blonde one the same about you and Amanda!" Flint says mockingly.

While Bletchley and Flint tease each other, Crabbe is still focused on his porridge, and Goyle, as so often, stares into space, wingbeats are heard from outside the Hall, getting louder. Draco turns his head - and is amazed. Of course he is used to letter owls, but he has never seen so many of them in one place.

Once, on his father's thirtieth birthday morning, more than fifty owls were waiting with greeting cards and presents in the mansion's conservatory, but now, about _two hundred_ owls are flying into the Great Hall!

Among the first is Perseus, the Malfoy's eagle owl, who drops a box of Bertie Bott's Beans on his lap - and a letter sealed with the family crest.

_Darn_ ...

He stows the beans in his shoulder bag before Crabbe discovers them, who sips the rest of his porridge out of the bowl, putting it on the table and making a strained face. Fortunately, he doesn't burp, but turns to Goyle and asks, "Where's your bag?"

Goyle looks on the floor next to him, puzzled. "Oh, I forgot ..."

"I'm going with you, need new parchment anyway," Crabbe says and looks at Draco expectantly.

He holds up his letter. "I'll catch up, see you in Snape's classroom."

"We'll save you a seat."

Absently, Draco nods and places the letter, which seems to be staring at him, on the table.

Two days ago, he had written his parents that he of course got sorted into Slytherin and already earned five points for his house. He also wrote that Dumbledore must have lost his mind because he instructed Hagrid to bring the first-years to the castle; in wooden boats which seemed not very solid. Furthermore, he mentioned his Christmas wish, a Nimbus Two Thousand, a new racing broom he had admired in a shop window in Diagon Alley (all begging and pleading to take his own broom to Hogwarts had been a waste of energy).

And finally, he reported that Harry Potter rejected his friendship offering because he prefers to associate with a Weasley.

His gaze wanders to the Gryffindor's table, where a white owl nibbles at Potter's ear. Slightly disgusted, Draco hopes he'll be sitting far away from him in Potions class.

Everything about _the boy who lived_ annoys him! First of all, he looks like a nobody. For someone like him, whose own clothes are about three sizes too big, the bleak school uniform is probably a blessing, but he is obviously not even able to comb his hair properly.

Anyway, his relatives don't seem to care about his look, but what can you expect from Muggles? The entire Potter Clan - or what's left of them - is apparently bonkers.

But it's not just that. Every time he enters the room, students stumble over their own feet, and teachers look at him in awe, no, _gape_ at him as if he were a damn miracle! Even Draco's father has always supported the theory that Potter might be the next great wizard after the Dark Lord (hence the assignment to Draco to "keep in" with him).

Draco knows just as little as anyone else what really happened ten years ago, but he shares the same view as his mother: The Dark Lord was NOT killed by a one year old child. Someone or something must have helped him! Can't people think logically? At least the Ravenclaws should know better, but in fact the Slytherins are the only ones who don't make a great fuss about the famous scarface.

Despite everything, he gets the uncomfortable feeling that his father might cherish his idea and ask Draco to approach Potter once more.  
Slowly, he opens the envelope and unfolds the heavy parchment, written in the unfussy handwriting of his father.

_Draco,_

_we congratulate you for being sorted into Slytherin. It is good to see that you uphold our tradition. _

_We expect you to work hard, perform well and keep us informed on your progress. Otherwise, we will have to contact Professor Snape. You certainly want to have an appropriate position one day; you are conscious of our connection with the Ministry, but the time has come for you to make your contribution. _

_In addition, we want to be informed about any unusual occurrences and instructions from Albus Dumbledore._

_As for Harry Potter, you have nothing to reproach yourself for. _ _At some point he will regret his decision to disrespect you._ _  
_ _It should not be your problem if he prefers to bother with the social underclass instead._

_Although it does seem a bit early for you to express a Christmas wish, we keep it in mind - providing that we receive positive feedback from Professor Snape. _

_P.S.: Let us know if you have been admitted into the Quidditch team._

_Father & Mother _

Draco exhales loudly. He puts the letter in his robe, vaults over the bench and joyfully makes his way to the dungeon. He hasn't been in such a good mood since the Sorting Hat sent him to Slytherin!

Not only can he officially turn his back on Harry Potter now, he also has read a hidden message between the whole blah blah: _"Of course you'll get your Nimbus, you are our only son, and what else should we do with all our money?"_

Chewing a cinnamon-flavoured bean, he enters the Potions classroom as one of the last.

It is lit only by torches, like the other part of the dungeon that is accessible to everyone. On the walls are supply cabinets with all sorts of potion ingredients, and shelves with pickled creatures in glass jars and strange-looking objects. In the corner stands a basin into which water pours from a gargoyle's mouth.

The Gryffindors, who look around anxiously, have taken their seats on the right, the Slytherins on the left side of the room. Draco sits down in the front row, where Crabbe and Goyle have reserved a seat between them. Potter and his loser friend sit in the back where they belong.

Suddenly, the door is opened with a bang. As if something were about to explode behind him, Snape hurries through the room with his long, black robe fluttering. He positions himself in front of the teacher's desk and looks at the students like they were a nasty disease. Instantly there is absolute silence. Everyone seems to be intimidated, except for Draco, whose father associates with people far more dodgy than Snape.

In a quiet but urgent voice Snape begins the lesson by taking the register. When he gets to Draco's name, he nods curtly. Draco returns the gesture and looks around smugly.

Shortly thereafter, Snape stops. "Ah, yes," he says softly. "Harry Potter. Our new - _celebrity_."

Draco can hold his breath just in time to keep himself from laughing out loud. Snape has a sense of humour! He would have expected anything but this.

After Snape has finished calling the roll (Draco thinks he hears quiet choking noises from Theodore Nott when Weasley is called), his dark eyes wander through the rows. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." His voice has a threatening undertone which lets you know that you better pay attention. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses."

Draco grins. He cannot imagine that Snape would ever speak in the same manner about a human being, but unlike most other teachers, he manages to keep the class silent without effort.

"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco looks at Goyle, who, as far as he can tell, listens fascinated. In general, the Slytherins all look very interested, the Gryffindors, however, seem to be rather nervous.

"Potter!" Snape says suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

_A sleeping potion. _

Draco hasn't learned something this specific in his private lessons, but because his grandfather is a potion maker as well, he has often helped him in making potions and already knows some exotic ingredients and agents.

He looks over his shoulder, gloating. The hand of Hermione Granger, a Gryffindor girl with a wild hairstyle, shoots into the air, but otherwise nobody seems to know the answer. Since Draco neither wants to be a swot nor ruin this exciting moment, he also holds back.

"I don't know, sir." Potter sounds slightly startled.

Snape's lips curl into a sardonic smile. "Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything."

Blissfully, Draco leans back in his chair. Finally someone who isn't blinded by a name and a stupid story!

"Let's try again, Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

_Even Goyle knows that! _

"I don't know, sir," Potter repeats, petrified.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

Draco, Crabbe and Goyle shake with laughter. Snape seems to have it in for the scarface. Maybe Draco had been too hasty about choosing his favourite subject ...

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

_There is none - are those supposed to be difficult questions?!_

Weasley looks helplessly back and forth between his buddy and Snape, while Granger stands up, stretching her hand towards the dungeon ceiling and looks as if she's about to burst. Whether she really knows all the answers or just needs to go to the bathroom, either way, Draco finds her behaviour almost more embarrassing than Potter's.

Apparently he is not the only one. A few rows farther back, the girls have a hard time suppressing their giggles - except for Parkinson, who stares at an oriental-looking Gryffindor girl (Patil something), as if she tries to burn a hole in the back of her head with her eyes.

"I don't know," Potter says again. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

A few Gryffindors laugh stupidly, but Snape silences them with a frosty look.

"Sit down," he snaps at the swot. "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Dead. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

A loud rummaging for parchment and quills follows. Over the noise, Snape says, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor house for your cheek, Potter."

While Draco writes down what he already knows, he wonders if he'll have to go to the hospital wing after class to get the grin unscrewed off his face.

In the further course of the lesson, Snape puts the students into pairs for mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. Following the instructions in his textbook, Draco weighs dried nettles and then begins to crushes the fangs of a snake. As a matter of routine, he prepares the ingredients twice to pass the other half over to Goyle whenever Snape isn't looking. Before Goyle messes up, he better keeps standing around doing nothing.

A few minutes later, Snape goes along the desks, stops in front of Draco's cauldron and nods satisfied. He turns to the class. "See how exemplarily Mr Malfoy stewed his -"

HISS - BANG!

Suddenly, the dungeon fills with poison-green clouds of smoke. Draco turns around and hardly believes his eyes: This dork Longbottom has somehow managed to melt his cauldron into a shapeless lump. The potion now seeps across the stone floor. The students hastily climb onto their stools.

"Moron," Zabini hisses barely audible.

Draco glares at Longbottom, who's been spattered with his brew; Snape was just about to praise him in front of the whole class!

"Idiot boy!" shouts Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with a wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Longbottom whines something indistinctly. All over his arms and face, red boils start to pop up, making him barely recognisable.

"Take him to the hospital wing," Snape snarls at Longbottoms Gryffindor partner and turns to Potter and Weasley, who had been working at the table next to them. "You - Potter - why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."

_Ha!_

Irritated, Potter opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind. Even he is not dumb enough to contradict Snape.

An hour later, after writing an essay - thanks to Longbottom - on why the order of ingredients added to the cauldron is essential, the Gryffindors bolt out of the classroom as if they've just been released from jail.

Draco, however, is already looking forward to the sequel of "Snape vs. Potter". While he's packing his things, Snape is taking notes and says, "Well done, Mr Malfoy, keep it up. Apparently there is still hope for this class. Give my regards to your father."

"Yes, sir."

With Crabbe, Goyle, Nott and Zabini, Draco strolls happily out of the classroom.

"What an embarrassing bunch," Zabini snorts. "And I always thought the Hufflepuffs to be the Losers' Club."

"What did you expect?" Draco says, shrugging. "Everyone knows the Gryffindors suffer from chronic overconfidence."

Nott grins. "I bet they're all standing around Longbottom's hospital bed in pity."

"And Potter sits in the corner crying because Snape was so mean to him."

"Must feel like home to him."

Draco frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't hear about it?" Nott asks excitedly. "He lives with his aunt and uncle, and even they hate him. It's said that he sleeps in a cupboard under the stairs."

Draco bursts out laughing. "That's awesome, where did you get that from?"

"Bletchley. The Gryffindor Prefect told him, and his brother and Potter are practically joined at the hip."

"Weasley?" Draco exclaims mockingly. "One of them actually managed to become a Prefect? Well, I hope the family enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame."

Nott laughs. "Those blood traitor scum."

After this commentary, Draco feels the need to applaud his childhood friend, as he is absolutely right! Technically, the Weasleys also belong to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but in fact they are a disgrace to the pure-blood community because the father has been campaigning for Muggle rights and protection for years and defends those people in public.

"They should've stood out of Hogwarts if they love Muggles so much," Zabini says, looking as if he has an unpleasant smell in his nose. "And those filthy Mudbloods don't belong here anyway."

The M-word, a very pejorative term for Muggle-born wizards and witches, that Draco hasn't heard in a while. A word everyone knows, everyone uses secretly and yet no one says out loud because it is frowned upon.

He nods approvingly. "I second that. They should at least wear a warning sign around their necks, so you don't accidentally get too close to them."

Laughing, they enter the Entrance Hall. Draco, Crabbe and Goyle head for the courtyard, Nott and Zabini climb up the large marble staircase because they want to go to the library.

"Hey," Zabini calls over his shoulder. "You happen to collect the Chocolate Frog Cards?"

Draco stopped doing that years ago, but Crabbe and Goyle answer in the affirmative.

"Do you have Helga Hufflepuff?"

As Goyle thinks hard, Crabbe says, "No ... but who wants Helga Hufflepuff?"

Zabini grins broadly. "So you don't know."

"What?"

"She has a _secret_. If you get me her card, I'll tell you," Zabini says and continues his way.

"Which secret does he mean, Malfoy?" Goyle asks in a whisper.

"Something silly, I suppose."

"I don't like Nott."

"Nobody cares, Crabbe."

Because the Slytherin and Gryffindor first-years are the only ones having no classes on Friday afternoons, the courtyard is empty. Crabbe and Goyle plonk themselves down on the edge of the fountain. "Hey, Malfoy, who am I? '_Professor, help me, my face is burning!_'" Goyle imitates Longbottom.

Draco manages a wry smile and generously lets them both reach into his box of Bertie Bott's Beans.

"Oh - or what about this: '_Professor, I'm sooo smart and know everything, if you don't pick me, I'm gonna die!_' Ha ha ha ... I thought, smart alecks like that Helene Granger belong into Ravenclaw."

"As if she'd really known the answers," says Draco, throwing a bean in the air and catching it with his mouth. Goyle tries to do the same, but the bean lands in his eye and he almost falls backwards into the fountain.

As Draco turns away eye-rolling, he notices Pansy Parkinson. She walks - or rather struts - to the other end of the courtyard from where a path leads to the lake. He becomes aware of her shoes. They're not one of those dark, plain sneakers worn by most students, but light blue, patent-leather flats with sparkling stones that reflect the light with every movement. Her robe looks different too. It's shorter, dark blue and with ruffled ends.

That's the reason why Draco hasn't spoken yet to most of his female classmates: Girls are completely useless. For all he knows, they do nothing but giggling all day, staring at jewellery and playing with their hair. He can easily do without such stuff. And then they have the nerve to interrupt important conversations about Quidditch!

Draco sighs. It seems to him like forever since he has flown over the roofs of the Malfoy mansion on his Comet, but it's only been a week. In a risky moment, he would've been collided with a bird if he didn't master some pretty cool evasive manoeuvres. And loops. And flying hands-free (which he mustn't get caught doing by his mother again, though).

"After the flying lesson, I need to talk to this Madam Hooch," he mumbles thoughtfully.

"To join the team?"

"Yes, Goyle."

"Do you think that will work?" Crabbe asks, stuffing a handful of beans into his mouth, half of them falling to the ground. "They usually don't let first-years play."

"You said it - usually! When they see me fly-"

Suddenly, something slips under Draco's robe from behind and brushes his legs.

"WAAH!" he screams, leaps and almost stumbles over a little black cat playing with the fallen beans.

His cheeks turn pink. As casually as possible, he puts the Bertie Bott's - box in his pocket and wipes invisible dust from his robe.

"What are you looking at?" he snarls at Crabbe and Goyle.

"Uh, nothing -"

At that moment they hear a whistle, whereupon the cat leaves the beans and runs straight to its owner: Pansy Parkinson. Their eyes meet. And then she starts giggling. She's making fun of him!

Although she's a Slytherin and as pure-blooded as he is, he won't just stand there and be laughed at. By anyone.

"Hey!" he shouts. "You better keep an eye on your cat!"

She grins. "If you come to Hogwarts, even though you're scared of cats, it's not my problem."

_Wrong answer. _

"I wouldn't be so cheeky if I were you. If my robe is ripped because of that thing, my father won't be too happy. He is Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, you know. And it would be a pity if he had to ban cats here, don't you think?"

Even though Draco has been exaggerating a bit, he wants her to know not to mess with him. He grins triumphantly as her expression darkens, but instead of apologising, she picks up her cat, comes back across the courtyard and stops in front of him.

At the touch of a button, Crabbe and Goyle appear at his side, which is a bit embarrassing; after all, she is one head shorter than him and petite enough that the next breeze might blow her away.

"Watch it!" she says.

Now Draco is the one laughing. "Are you threatening me, midget?"

"Listen, blondie, the next time you call my cat _thing_ again, I will tell Dumbledore that you've kicked him. And I don't care about your trashy robe, got it?"

Crabbe and Goyle's jaws drop at once, but it takes Draco a few seconds to perceive she has actually dared talking to him like that. He folds his arms and asks slowly, "Do you realise who you're talking to?"

"To an eleven-year-old who is flanked by two bodyguards and screams like a banshee because of a cat. But don't worry, if you're a little nicer in the future, that's just between us ... well, maybe," she says with a smug smile and turns around on her heel.

Completely taken aback, Draco stares after her. He feels like he's going nuts.

As he turns to face Crabbe and Goyle, both look so dumbfounded as if they wanted to say something but forgot how to speak. Finally, Goyle asks sheepishly, "What does _flanked_ mean?!"

"It means SHUT UP!" Draco exclaims upset and rushes back into the castle.

Along the way he realises, however, that he has no idea where to go …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains a tiny reference to a group of kids based on one of my favourite novels.


	5. Mean Girl

* * *

_For a fraction of a second, the Gryffindors’ faces drop. _

* * *

If Pansy had been told before that she would be surrounded by so many idiots within one day, she wouldn’t have believed it.

It all started with Potter and Longbottom, who turned Potions class into one single embarrassment (not that she would’ve had expected much from Toadboy, but Potter could the least have known where to find a bezoar!). 

Then it went on with Malfoy, who obviously thought he would get away with labelling her cat as a thing, and Crabbe and Goyle, who create the impression of not being able to distinguish the ends of a broom from each other. 

And her minions, who Pansy joined at the lake, proved once again why they didn’t end up in Ravenclaw: Daphne tried to lure the giant squid ashore, but to her astonishment, it didn’t feel addressed by either “Inky” nor the Liquorice Wands she threw into the water. Tracey jumped around oddly and warbled some Muggle songs no one else knew, and Millicent wondered if Hogwarts could actually be declared a cat-free zone because Malfoy said so. And despite the weekend had started and no one asked her to do it, Sally was busy doing the homework for all five of them (of course they didn’t stop her, though). 

But the highlight was yet to come.

Later in the afternoon, the girls return to the courtyard. Pansy’s gaze falls on Parvati and Lavender Brown, a Gryffindor girl with blonde curls and glittering, pink butterfly hair clips. They’re sitting on one of the white stone benches at the edge of the yard and flip through _Witch Weekly_, a popular gossip magazine.

On the bench next to them, Padma is absorbed in a book.

“What are you reading, Ravenclaw?” asks Pansy moments later, sitting down next to her friend. 

“Hey,” Padma smiles and shows her the book cover. “Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.” 

“I’ve got the same one,” Daphne says cheerfully.

“We all have - this is a textbook,” Millicent reminds her, but Daphne continues unperturbed: “Have you seen the image of the unicorn? I like it the most. And the Demiguise. It looks like a tiny, cuddly Dumbledore.” 

Suddenly, a shrill giggle sounds a few metres away. 

“Myron is the best,” raves Lavender. 

Parvati smiles. “Tell me something I don’t know.” 

“I’ll meet him someday.” 

“But me first!” 

Pansy leans forward and points at Lavender’s hair clips, “Don’t get your hopes up, Myron doesn’t care about people with poor taste.”

Lavender gives her a venomous look. “Typical Slytherin, always trying to pick a fight.” 

Sighing, Padma holds the book in front of her face again.

Millicent crosses her arms. “What do you know about Slytherin, anyway?”

“They say You-Know-Who was a Slytherin himself,” Parvati says.

“True,” says Tracey. “So what?” 

Lavender laughs. “Well, there you are - most Dark wizards came from Slytherin house. So the rumours are true!” 

“Exactly, because You-Know-Who recruited most of his followers out of Hogwarts, and those could only have been Slytherins,” Parvati concludes triumphantly. 

Sally shrugs. “It figures, considering that You-Know-Who was a pure-blood fanatic and our house is composed mostly of pure-bloods.”

Perplexed, Pansy and the others look at their normally reserved classmate. Lavender stands up and waves the rolled-up magazine. “Yes, and they joined him because they were twisted people!”

Sally shakes her head. “That would be too easy. Did it ever occur to you that most of his supporters feared the consequences of _not_ following him? Assuming You-Know-Who would have aimed to kill all pure-bloods to bring Muggle-borns to power, Hufflepuff would have had an accordingly reputation today.” 

For a fraction of a second, the Gryffindors’ faces drop. “But it hasn’t,” Parvati exclaims defiantly and looks at her sister. “You could say something, too!” 

“Nope, I'm staying out of this,” Padma murmurs, her eyes focused on her book, but Pansy catches a glimpse of Padma grinning.

“Say whatever you want,” replies Lavender. “It’s common knowledge that Slytherins long for power and are drawn to the Dark Side if they benefit from it. And you have that tendency as well, otherwise you would not be in Slytherin.”

“Are you saying … we’re _evil_?” Daphne asks. For the first time since Pansy met her, she looks angry. 

“Well I -” 

“Oh, we got it.” Tracey nods. “So, there’s a house for the brave, the wise, the hard-working - and the baddies. Is it just me or doesn’t one exactly go with the others?” 

Pansy rolls her eyes and gets up. “Excuse us, Padma, but we’re leaving now. So Parvati and Lavender can go and tell Dumbledore that a quarter of his students are future criminals.”

Daphne laughs. “Yeah, right! And besides, our common room is so much cooler than yours,” she shouts, sticking out her tongue and follows Pansy and the others back to the castle.

If they had turned around once again, they would have seen Parvati and Lavender glaring at them. However, no one notices how Padma struggles not to burst out laughing behind her book.

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, if that’s even possible in a place like Hogwarts. 

At dinner, Malfoy was mightily amused by his own joke about Pansy and her small height, but the only ones laughing were Crabbe and Goyle, because as dumb appendages it’s their job to do so. 

And later, on the way to the common room, the Bloody Baron floated past them, so Millicent and Daphne reached the dorm shrieking and well ahead of the others. 

But now things have settled down; the girls got comfortable on their beds and review Potions class with Professor Snape (except for Sally, who has fallen asleep with a tome on her lap and snores softly).

“Snape is kind of scary,” Daphne says, chewing on a Liquorice Wand. “And his questions were pretty hard ... except for the bezoar one, of course.”

Millicent shrugs. “Who cares? He didn’t ask us.” 

“Exactly,” says Pansy. “And Potter survived much worse, I dare say. I’m more worried about Longbottom - I mean, not about him, but him blowing us all to kingdom come someday. Maybe his cauldron was just the beginning.” 

Tracey grins. “If my dad knew what’s going on here! It took Mum ages to calm him down after my Hogwarts letter arrived.”

“Why is that? Didn’t he know you’re both witches?” Millicent asks.

“Sure he did, but the address line _The Attic Room_ was too much for him. He ran around our house like a headless chicken and kept peering through the windows. Mumbled how they would know where my room is and that he’ll call the police … until he remembered he’s a policeman himself.” 

Daphne chuckles. “But how else would the letter have reached you? Muggles are so funny.” 

Tracey looks at their sleeping classmate. “I wonder how Sally grew up. Her mother is a Muggle, too, but she lives with her father ...” 

“Oh, give her her beauty rest,” says Pansy. “She’s in dire need of it.”

Millicent and Daphne snort with laughter, but Tracey replies, “I think she’s nice.” 

“So what? I'm still right,” Pansy says indifferently. 

“And she made Parvati and Lavender look stupid,” Tracey says.

“They _are_ stupid, and embarrassing too,” Pansy rolls her eyes. “Just like their talking about Voldemort.” 

The girls are gasping for air. “You said his name,” whispers Millicent in disbelief.

“I don’t think that was his real name, more kind of a nickname. I mean, who names his child like this?” 

“I always thought it was his last name,” murmurs Daphne.

“That’s why they called him _Lord_ ... you know.”

“Whatever, you shouldn’t say his name,” replies Millicent.

“Well, then listen up now,” Pansy smiles. “Because I say what I want! Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort, Vol-“ 

BUFF!

She gets interrupted by a pillow hitting her right the face. “Are you crazy?” she hisses at Daphne. 

“You’re scaring Millicent,” answers Daphne innocently.

“I’m not scared,” Millicent says, throwing her pillow at Daphne.

“Hey! What was that for?” 

_Just wait! _

Pansy grabs her pillow and winds up, but instead of hitting Daphne, it lands on the next bed and bounces off Sally’s head. “TURBAN!” she shouts and wakes with a start. 

Pansy points at the bed opposite hers. “Daphne started it!”

“But I’m not Daphne,” murmurs Sally and adjusts her glasses.

Tracey doubles up with laughter. “Wow, Pansy really can’t aim!”

Pansy sulks. “Oh ... well, then I have to practice!” She jumps up quickly and throws every single pillow on her bed at Tracey. What follows is a literally pillow fight. The girls jump all across the dormitory and smack each other with their cushions, everyone against everyone! It doesn’t take long for the first pillow to rip apart and the feathers flying around are chased keenly by Winston and Lady. 

They don’t stop until Pansy is out due to a laughing fit (she imagined her mother hyperventilating while watching them).

Shortly after, they go to sleep exhausted. The last thing Pansy hears is Tracey whispering, “Some people say he’s still out there somewhere. Do you think there is anything to it?” 

But apparently the others are already asleep, because no one answers. And Pansy is too tired to shake her head.

* * *

“That’s unfair!” Pansy whines at breakfast the next morning after Bletchley told them about their first flying lesson, which will take place on Thursday with the Gryffindors. Her exuberant mood from the night before has come to an abrupt end. “Why do we all have to take part? I don’t want to do this!”

“What’s the matter, never sat on a broom before?” asks Nott, sitting two seats away from her. 

Pansy looks at him as if he asked to borrow her hairband. “Of course not, that’s for boys! And what are portkeys and Floo powder for? I’m perfectly fine without a broom, thank you.”

“Well, I can’t wait,” grins Tracey. “My dad never let me even close to a broom.” 

“Flying lesson,” Zabini repeats contemptuously. “Sure, those Hufflepuff and Gryffindor Mudbloods have never seen a broomstick in their lives, but I’m personally offended they assume I wouldn’t know how to fly!” 

Malfoy sneers. “Don’t be so negative, that’s probably going to be even more fun than Potions class. What’s the betting that Potter and Longbottom will make complete fools of themselves, _again_?”

Now that Malfoy speaks, Pansy is back to eating. Even if his repertoire of topics would not only consist of Quidditch, his father and Harry Potter, whom he obviously cannot stand for some reason, she wouldn’t feel the need to listen to him.

“I’d say the odds are good,” says Zabini.

“But keep in mind that Potter has one major advantage,” smiles Nott. “He grew up in a broom cupboard.” 

Despite her bad mood, Pansy giggles. The idea of someone sleeping in a cupboard is actually quite funny, but maybe the Muggles’ cupboards are very spacious (Pansy’s closet at home is big enough for five people sleeping in it, theoretically). She probably knows even less about Muggles and their habits than Crabbe about healthy eating. 

Well, at least she has heard of a famous Muggle called Winston Churchill, but only because her cat, though. He already had his name when she bought him at the _Magical Menagerie _in Diagon Alley. She chose Winston, because every time she stroked another cat, he came in between. Pansy told the girls that it was a stormy night when he appeared completely neglected and starved on the doorsteps of their townhouse in London, so she took and fed him up. That sounds a bit more dramatic. 

“Davis,” Malfoy suddenly shouts, interrupting Pansy’s thoughts. “How do the Muggles call those things with the rotating blades which serve them as air transportation?” 

Tracey grins. “Helicopter.” 

“So, I was flying on my Comet Two Sixty - it’s got a lot of power - and all of a sudden, a heli-whatever was coming right at me! If I hadn’t looped around it, it would’ve hit me hard - that was close, but I did it.” 

Millicent and Daphne listen to him fascinated.

“Luckily you can do loops, that must be quite difficult.”

“Weren’t you afraid at all?” 

Malfoy waves his hand dismissively. “Not really, I actually followed the Muggles for a while, until I got bored. But let me tell you, you should’ve seen their faces; thought they’d crash into the next tree, ha ha!”

Pansy is not impressed by this obvious lie. She puts her plate aside and rests her chin on her hands. “I am so proud,” she says in a sweet voice, “to hear this story first-hand.” 

Malfoy looks at her in amusement. “Parkinstein! How nice they found you a highchair.” 

She ignores his comment and sighs, “And at the same time, it’s so sad, considering how many wizards have been killed after colliding with such a Muggle machine.” 

“Who cares? Those idiots should’ve been more carefully.”

“Wait,” says Nott thoughtfully. “There was this Quidditch player -” 

“Right!” Zabini exclaims. “Fabius Watkins, Chaser for the Montrose Magpies. Not so long ago ... the blades tore him apart.”

“Unbelievable,” gapes Pansy. “Even a pro didn’t stand a chance! That almost sounds like a miracle, Malfoy. So I guess Potter isn’t the only boy who lived, huh?” 

The colour of Malfoy’s face slowly turns into an ugly, bright red. “Why don’t you go and find someone else to bother?”

But Pansy doesn’t think of it, “Say, how embarrassing was it for your parents to get a letter from the Ministry because you violated the Statute of Secrecy?” 

Just now the others seem to get it and look at Malfoy expectantly. The International Statute of Secrecy stipulates that any kind of magical presence must be concealed from the Muggle world and that violations are punished.

Malfoy replies snippy, “I don’t care that the Muggles have seen me - and besides, what would you know about flying, or the Ministry, anyway?” 

But Pansy just smiles and drinks her cocoa while Malfoy angrily shreds his slice of toast into pieces. The other first-years avoid making any sound, until Nott clears his throat a few moments later. “The Ministry, eh? Do you know whom they should send letters to?” he asks with a grin. “Well? Those teachers who give us homework for the weekend! ... Right?”

But the only reactions are blankly looks, and Zabini who asks, “What are you talking about?” 

Notts grin disappears. “I don’t know.” 

They continue their breakfast in silence.

* * *

After the owls delivered the mail on Thursday morning, Pansy, unlike her classmates, is not surprised that she’s the only one who hasn’t received a letter from her parents yet.

“This may take some time,” she explains. “My father is on a business trip this month and my mother is concerned with her next spring collection.” 

As usual, when she mentions her mother, Daphne’s and Millicent’s eyes light up. But before they can say anything, Malfoy, who sits a few metres away, loudly brags about his new, roughly one hundredth package of sweets and shoos away an owl with long ear-tufts, which was about to sit on his shoulder. 

“Won’t be long before he looks like Crabbe,” Pansy remarks.

“Is there a broom that can lift this chump up in the air?” Millicent giggles, but when Pansy apes her, she becomes silent and looks down at her plate shamefaced. 

“What’s eating you?” Tracey asks, puzzled. 

“Flying lesson,” Pansy mutters, watching as Malfoy and his two bodyguards swagger to the Gryffindor table. 

“I understand that,” sighs Daphne. “I get dizzy every time on that swivelling staircase on the third floor.” 

“I’m a little scared, too,” Sally admits. 

“Come off it, nothing’s gonna happen, flying will definitely be fun!” Tracey smiles encouragingly, but to no avail. “Oh, now, don’t make a face as long as a fiddle.” 

“Bother!” Pansy hisses suddenly. 

The others follow her gaze. “What?”

“Those numbskulls would’ve almost had a fight if McGonagall hadn’t interfered.” 

“Who?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Malfoy took away Longbottom’s Remembrall. And since the Toadboy can’t defence himself, Potter and Weasley wanted to settle things for him - with a view to the teacher’s table,” she says, snorting in amusement. “I’d love to see someone breaking Malfoy’s nose.” 

“Wait, what’s a Remembrall?” Tracey asks curious. 

“A small glass ball that glows red when you’ve forgotten something,” says Millicent. “It doesn’t tell you what you’ve forgotten, though. I’ve got one at home, too.”

“It’s a stupid children’s toy,” comments Pansy. 

“Yeah, totally!” says Millicent hastily. “I haven’t used it for ages, of course.”

Promptly at 3:30 PM, the Slytherins have gathered near Hagrid’s hut on a meadow where the flying lesson will take place. Their teacher Madam Hooch, a woman with grey hair and yellow eyes like a bird of prey, looks out for the rest of the class impatiently.

Pansy doesn’t mind at all that the Gryffindors are late; secretly, she hopes the lesson will be cancelled for some reason. Sally seems to have the same thoughts, apparently doing some breathing exercises to calm herself down - unlike Tracey. “Man, I’m excited!” 

“Not really,” grumbles Millicent. 

The boys, however, are completely relaxed. Malfoy grins stupidly, as if he could hardly wait to prove his alleged talent in front of everyone. 

Pansy gives the broom, that lies in the grass next to her, a kick. It’s made of the cheapest wood and many of the twigs are already missing. “Our house-elf wouldn’t even sweep the cellar with such a thing.” 

“You’ve got a house-elf?” Millicent asks awestruck.

Daphne chuckles. “They’re ugly and cute at the same time, aren’t they?”

But at that moment, Pansy scowls as the Gryffindors hurry down the slope. 

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” Hooch snaps at them. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

Parvati and Lavender skilful avoid looking at Pansy and the other girls. “Stick out your right hand over your broom and say ‘Up!’”

“UP!”

Pansy’s broom trembles a few inches up into the air, before falling down again seconds later. But only very few, including Malfoy and Tracey, manage to summon the broom from the ground immediately.

“Wow, that’s so cool!” Tracey squeaks, continuing on Pansy’s frosty stare, “Well, you mustn’t be afraid, I suppose.”

“Up,” Pansy shouts half-hearted, thinking, _‘__Come on, or I’ll rip out your last twigs as well.’ _

This time, her broom actually obeys as if it had heard her.

Millicent and Daphne seem to be absolutely out of luck, so when Madam Hooch doesn’t look over, they just grab their brooms from the ground. 

Next, Madam Hooch walks through the rows and checks their grips to show them how to safely stay on a broomstick. With great satisfaction, Pansy watches as she corrects Malfoy, “No, no, that’s not good. You have to open your hands up more, with your right hand on top.” 

“Excuse me,” he says, sounding upset, “but I’ve been flying since I was six years old and I’ve never fallen off my broom!”

“Then you were lucky all these years, boy,” Hooch says, moving on to Goyle. 

Malfoy doesn’t notice Pansy grinning mischievous at him as he exchanges indignant looks with Nott and Zabini and taps his forehead.

When Hooch comes over to Pansy, she’s irritated. “But you’re not even sitting on your broom.” 

“I’m not feeling well,” Pansy sulks, but her teacher doesn’t want to hear about it. 

“Fiddlesticks! You’ll see, flying is great and not difficult at all. Just do it like your friend here,” she says, turning to Tracey. “That’s perfect.”

“Yeah, great,” she mumbles annoyed and takes her position. She doesn’t want to fly. Not at all, not even a bit. 

Satisfied, Hooch steps back and raises her voice. “Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly. On my whistle - three - two -”

Suddenly, even before a whistling sound is heard, Longbottom shoots up in the air like a champagne cork. 

“Come back, boy!” cries Madam Hooch, obviously unable to cope with the situation. Otherwise she might have come up with a more helpful instruction … 

Longbottom goes higher and higher, loses his grip and finally plumps back on the ground face down. His broom decides to take a trip instead and floats over to the Forbidden Forest, where it disappears.

The Gryffindors scream and cover their faces with their hands in dismay, while Pansy happily throws off her broom. The flying lesson will hardly be continued today! 

With a white face, Hooch rushes to the shapeless heap. She mumbles something about a broken wrist and helps the Toadboy up with her arm around him. Then she turns to the rest of the class. “None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’.” 

At the sight of Longbottom’s tear-streaked face, Pansy has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. 

“Come on, dear,” says Hooch, walking slowly with him towards the castle. 

As soon as both are out of earshot, Malfoy laughs. “Did you see his face, the great lump?” 

The Slytherin boys giggle as Parvati steps up. “Shut up, Malfoy.” But he ignores her comment and jumps to the spot in the grass where Toad-Neville crash landed. 

Meanwhile, Pansy eyes Parvati in amusement, remembering exactly how she had described Longbottom on their arrival at Hogwarts. With mock surprise, she asks, “Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom? Never thought you’d like _fat, little cry babies,_ Parvati.”

Parvati doesn’t answer, but her cheeks turn pink. 

“Look!” Malfoy suddenly shouts, snatching something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.” Grinning, he holds up the Remembrall that glitters in the sunlight. “Maybe if the fat lump had given this a squeeze, he’d have remembered to fall on his fat arse!” 

To Pansy’s displeasure, Millicent and Daphne burst into laughter, until another Gryffindor speaks up. It’s Harry Potter. “Give that here, Malfoy,” he says in a quiet voice (and completely fails to sound threatening). 

Mesmerised, the students watch them both; Pansy hopes that they will continue their argument from earlier. And this time, there is no teacher far and wide, so nothing gets in the way of Malfoy’s broken nose - except for Crabbe and Goyle, who probably could knock out Potter with a single punch.

And that’s exactly what Malfoy seems to be aware of, because he smirks. “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect - how about - up a tree?” 

“Give it _here_!” Potter shouts, but Malfoy casually gets on his broom.

And although Pansy doubts that she will be as lucky as before, she prays to Merlin for a teacher to show up and expel Malfoy right away.


	6. Bad News & Broomsticks

* * *

_“Potter, with his holy scar, gets everything he wants!”_

* * *

As he rises higher and higher, Draco realises how much he has missed flying. With a light breeze blowing through his hair and that priceless feeling of weightlessness, he’d like to stay up here for the rest of the day.

This old school broom tends to fly too far to the left, but that doesn’t bother Draco. A skilful flyer like him can handle such a stubborn thing.

His father always says he is a natural, and in order to demonstrate this to his class, he flies fast and in helical motions to the top of a tall oak tree. From here he can overlook the Quidditch pitch on the left, the lake on the right and the castle in front of him. And because of the dense treetop, he can land unnoticed if Madam Hooch returns.

With their mouths open, his classmates look up at him. Yes, Draco is in his element right now. Nobody can compete with him on that, not even Harry Potter, famous or not. Surely he couldn’t stay on a broom for five seconds ...

Then Draco remembers why he’s up here in the first place. Casually, he throws Longbottom’s Remembrall up in the air and shouts, “Come and get it, Potter!”

Ignoring the swot Granger, who insistently talks to him, Potter mounts his broom and takes off. Draco didn’t expect anything less from him, after all, it is a Gryffindor’s duty to defend the honour of all sissies in the area.

Excitedly, he waits for Potter to fall on his ugly face like Longbottom before him - but instead, he steers his broom as effortlessly as if he had never done anything else!

Draco’s grin freezes as he gets closer to him metre by metre and finally reaches the same height. “Give it here or I'll knock you off that broom!”

“Oh, yeah?” Draco pretends to be unimpressed, though he suddenly feels quite uncomfortable.

And indeed, the next moment Potter shoots towards him like an arrow! Draco manages to dodge him just in time and almost loses his grip. With sweaty palms he clutches his broomstick, his heartbeat is almost audible.

One look down and he becomes aware that with a fall from this height, he wouldn’t have got away with a broken wrist like Longbottom!

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy!”

This maniac has obviously no idea what he had almost done. Before he attacks him again, Draco must distract Potters attention from him. “Catch it if you can, then!”

With all his strength, he throws the worthless glass ball towards the lake and swoops back to the others, where they watch Potter - instead of crash-landing in the lake and drowning himself - catching the Remembrall.

“Beginner’s luck,” Draco mumbles, as the Gryffindors run up to Potter, cheering. He won’t admit the thought that Potter might be _talented_ in flying. This would be too unlikely, anyway ...

“HARRY POTTER!” a voice suddenly booms out from the castle entrance, and Draco’s face brightens up. Professor McGonagall runs towards them, her eyes sparkling angrily behind her square glasses. “_Never_ \- in all my time at Hogwarts - how _dare_ you - might have broken your neck -”

_Or mine!_

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor -”

“Be quiet, Miss Patil -”

“But Malfoy -”

“That’s _enough_, Mr Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.”

Downcast, the scarface trots behind her, and glee warms Draco’s heart.

When they are out of earshot, he throws his hands up in mock horror and shouts, “What a loss, the legendary Harry Potter gets kicked out of Hogwarts in less than two weeks!”

“Yeah, and now he goes back to the Muggles,” sneers Crabbe.

“They won’t kick him out!” Weasley snarls.

“Not so sure about that,” Draco smiles mischievously. “You heard what Hooch said, and Potter clearly broke the rules.”

“You started it, though!”

“Prove it!”

The Slytherin boys laugh, but Weasley clenches his fists. “You won’t get away with that, I’m going to tell Dumbledore what really happened!”

“I Understand that you’re mad, Weasley. I mean, how will you explain that to your family? They were probably hoping your friend would slip a few Galleons to you, right?”

Before he can throw himself at Draco, Weasley, whose complexion is now matching his hair colour, is being held back by Seamus Finnigan, a Gryffindor with an Irish accent. “This is all your fault, Malfoy!”

“Rubbish,” says Zabini. “If Potter is stupid enough to fly after him, it’s his own fault.”

“But he stole Neville’s Remembrall,” replies Dean Thomas, a dark-skinned Gryffindor.

Now the girls are interfering, too. “So what?” says Millicent Bulstrode. “It’s just a children’s toy.”

“Who asked you?” says Lavender Brown.

“Shut up!” Daphne Greengrass shouts.

“No, you shut up!” Parvati Patil replies.

Draco watches them talking all at once – except for Pansy Parkinson, who is standing a few metres away, staring into her pocket mirror. That disrespectful brat has made fun of him twice already; he’d like to see her getting expelled as well. But for now, angering her will be good enough.

“What are you going to do with that, midget?” he asks mockingly, pointing at her broom in the grass. “You better ask for a toy broomstick. They only lift one metre off the ground, but that’s at least twice your size.”

“Can’t you come up with anything new, Malfoy?” she asks without taking her eyes off her mirror.

“I just think for today there is no need for anybody else to embarrass himself.”

“Oh, you mean, like you did when Potter almost knocked you off the broom? True, that would have been quite embarrassing for you.”

“What are you talking about? I had everything under control.”

“Didn’t seem like it.”

“Quite a lot of opinion for so little idea. In a real flying competition, Potter wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please don’t start with your celihopper story again.”

“I’ll talk about what I want! And it’s not a story, it happened just like I said,” he lies.

Who cares that the flying object was just a bird? After all, it’s the principle that he could avoid a collision at the last second ...

“Whatever,” she murmurs, stroking her hair with concentration.

At that moment, Draco realises that it’s not Potter he loathes the most. “Does it work?”

“What?”

“Your mirror charm,” he answers innocently. “Do you look less ugly in it than in reality?”

She makes an indignant noise, but is apparently too irritated to reply something. Grinning, Draco turns around and walks away.

The others have become silent. The reason for this is Madam Hooch, who is just returning from the castle and whose facial expression doesn’t bode well. “Flying lessons have been cancelled till further notice,” she shouts gruffly.

The boys start to protest loudly, but Hooch raises her voice, “And I won’t discuss it, the instruction comes directly from Professor Dumbledore. Come on, in you go, chop-chop!”

“Great,” says Nott, “And who do we have to thank for this? That useless dork Longbottom.”

On the way back to the castle, a new fight breaks out between the first-years. Only Draco stops and watches how Madam Hooch, with a swift movement of her wand, levitates the brooms around her, which form a neat bundle.

He clears his throat. “Prof- ... Mrs ... Ma’am?!”

She turns around in surprise. “What is it, boy? Do you want to take roots here?”

“When will the Quidditch trials take place?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but first-years have not been admitted for years.”

“Well, maybe you know my father, Lucius Malfoy. He is Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and he says exceptions can be made.”

“Such an exception occurs very rarely. Since I’m leading the flying lessons, I’ve only seen one, to be exact.”

“But you don’t understand,” Draco continues unperturbed. “I’m really good! I can show you, right now!”

Visibly impatient, she answers, “Listen! Even if you were older, the Slytherin team is complete, and after winning the Quidditch Cup five years in a row, I doubt that Mr Flint will change his line-up any time soon. And now excuse me.”

Draco hesitates. Why should he convince Madam Hooch, if there is no position left on the team at all? Did Flint lie to him?

Back in the Entrance Hall, he doesn’t even notice that he nearly stepped on the escaped toad of Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff first-year. Just as he is about to descend the spiral staircase to the dungeon, Bletchley comes his way.

“Have you seen Flint? I have to talk to him,” Draco says sullenly.

“No, what is it?”

“Quidditch.”

“Sounds serious,” smiles Bletchley. “But don’t bother going down, he isn’t there. Try the trophy room.”

“Trophy room?”

“Exactly, he goes there often. It’s on the third floor, from the staircase to the left. You can’t miss it, it’s always unlocked.”

Despite the considerable room size, every inch of the walls is covered with crystal glass displays and shelves from which silver and golden trophies, medals, plates, and statues are flashing.

Behind a pillar in the middle of the room, Draco discovers Flint. He’s standing in front of a glass display containing Quidditch badges of every Slytherin team player of the last decades. Draco takes a brief look inside, and quite often comes across the name Flint. Apparently, the talent lies in the family.

“I suppose my father taught me how to fly before I could even walk,” Flint says proudly. “Did you know that, in my first year, I already became a Chaser? I was the youngest in eighty-four years.”

“I talked to Madam Hooch,” Draco says bluntly. "She said your team is complete.”

“Of course it is.”

He frowns. “But you said, if I convince her -“

“Wait, you didn’t think you’d get a real position on the team, did you?”

By looking at Draco’s blankly face, he throws back his head laughing. “I’m certainly not going to replace one of my players with a first-year, just because he begs for it long enough! That’s not happening, as long as my team works so well, I won’t change a thing. I thought you might be useful as a second or third substitute!”

_Substitute?? That would be the purest waste of talent!_

Draco swallows his anger. His father is an influential man. He has often taken him to games of the Montrose Magpies, his favourite Quidditch team. For his tenth birthday, Draco got a Quaffle signed by all team players and a group photo with them. He makes a last attempt. “How do you like the Magpies?”

“The all-time winners? They’re the best, just like my team.”

“What would you say if I got you a season ticket? For the dignitaries’ box, of course.”

Flint crosses his arms. “Why are you asking?”

Draco shrugs and cites his father, “Everything comes at a price.”

“Do you think so? Well, then listen: I can’t be bought! At least not when it comes to my team, got it?”

Draco didn’t expect such an answer. From the proceeds of such a ticket, Flint could buy the entire Weasley family, and even had money left over for a few Chocolate Frogs!

“People keep asking me how we managed to win the Quidditch Cup five years in a row. You can totally tell what explanation these biased idiots expect to hear from a Slytherin: that we’ve been cheating our way through. But the truth is that we’ve spent countless holidays at Hogwarts to train together. That we’re working our asses off five times a week, and that I’ve spent more time planning game tactics than doing homework in recent years. And you think you could just walk in here with nothing but your name and a bagful of Galleons and buy yourself into my team? Do you really want to insult me like that?”

Draco stares at the glass display. The day had started so well ...

Flint shakes his head and continues in a calm voice, “If you’re as good as you say, wait for a try-out like everyone else. I’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

He makes his way toward the exit, but turns around again and grins. “Unless you’d like to make me a present with this ticket. It happens that my birthday is just one month away.”

When Draco enters the Great Hall in the evening, he is quite taken aback to see a certain boy with glasses sitting with the Gryffindors, as if nothing had happened.

Looking at the food plates, Crabbe and Goyle try to push past Draco, but he holds them back by their robes. “Come along!”

He ignores Crabbe, who mutters his discontent, and heads for the Gryffindor table. He has to find out what happened to Potter’s expulsion.

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?”

“You’re a lot braver now you’re back on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you.”

Draco disregards Potter’s attempt to be funny. Why doesn’t he answer his question? Suddenly, an idea crosses his mind. “I’d take you on any time on my own. Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only - no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of a wizard’s duel before, I suppose?”

“Of course he has,” says Weasley, without being asked, and gets up. “I’m his second, who’s yours?”

_Until now I thought, Longbottom was the dumbest Gryffindor._

Draco bites his lip and turns to his ‘little friends’. “Crabbe,” he says. “Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room, that’s always unlocked.”

Draco turns around and almost runs to the Slytherin table. Once there, he sits down next to Zabini and laughs out loud.

“So?” Nott asks. “Why is Potter still here? And what’s so funny?”

“He didn’t say, but I’ll make sure this is his last night at Hogwarts.”

Nott and Zabini look at him expectantly, while he makes room for Crabbe and Goyle and drinks a whole glass of pumpkin juice. Finally, he continues, “I challenged him to a wizard’s duel at midnight! He couldn’t say no of course, and Weasley, that idiot, proudly declared himself to be Potter’s second. It was almost too easy.”

Zabini shakes his head. “Needless to say that the word ‘midnight’ didn’t ring any bell. So much stupidity needs to be punished.”

“Um, but Malfoy,” says Goyle. “What if you and Crabbe are caught by Filch?”

Draco looks at him. “Of course, Crabbe and I will _not_ be in the trophy room tonight!”

“But you said -”

“I know it’s hard for you, but try to think,” - Nott almost chokes on his drink - “If we’d go through with this, we’d have three potential problems. First: Filch. Second: Peeves. Third: points deduction for Slytherin. But since we are not going, what happens instead?”

Goyle looks as if he needs to solve a highly complicated formula. Draco sighs. “First: I’ll talk to Filch. Second: Filch catches Potter. Third: points deduction for Gryffindor, and a definite school expulsion because Potter has broken the rules again. Does that seem plausible to you?”

It takes a few seconds for Goyle’s face to brighten up. “Hehe, they’re so stupid! … Wait - I have an idea! We tell this Penny to come to the trophy room, too!”

Draco frowns. “Who?”

“Penny Parkinson.”

“Her name is Pansy, and why would she do that?”

“We kidnap her cat?”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh ...”

“We have Astronomy on Tuesday again. Shall I shove her off the tower?”

“No, Crabbe!”

“Why do you hate each other anyway?” Zabini asks.

Draco folds his arms. “Because she’s a self-loving bitch who hasn’t been taught respect for boys.”

Nott leans forward to get a look at the girls at the other end of the table. “Comes from a good family, though. There aren’t many left who can make that claim that these days.”

“Well, _I_ can,” says Draco irritated, “and she’s still getting on my nerves!”

Zabini laughs barely audible. “That might become long seven years for you both.”

“We’ll see. She may yet fall off the Astronomy Tower one day.”

After dinner, Draco is waiting outside the Great Hall, next to a door which most students give a wide berth: the office of the caretaker Argus Filch.

It is an open secret that Filch is a Squib, someone who comes from a wizarding family, but completely lacks magical abilities. Thus Squibs are kind of the opposite of Mudbloods, they’re not necessarily despised like them, but not respected either.

When the Entrance Hall is almost empty, Draco knocks on the door. Shortly thereafter, shuffling steps are heard; Filch opens the door, sticks his grey-haired head out and snaps at him, “What do you want?”

“I’m doing my duty and report a rule violation,” Draco says disparagingly. “Unless you’re the wrong person to talk to about that.”

The caretaker glares at him suspiciously. “Fine, but make it quick, I’m busy.”

As Draco enters the windowless room, an unfamiliar, disgusting smell hits him. It takes a moment for his eyes to get used to the gloominess; the only source of light is a single oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling. There are wooden filing cabinets on the wall, labelled with names. Apparently, the Squib sets up a file on any student who ever broke a rule. Draco notes that two students have an entire drawer to themselves: ‘Weasley, Fred’ and ‘Weasley, George’. He wrinkles his nose almost reflexively.

Even more disturbing is the collection of chains and manacles hanging on the wall behind Filch’s desk. Next to it, there’s a moth-eaten armchair, but Draco doesn’t feel the slightest need to sit down on it, especially since Filch’s dust-coloured cat is sitting on the armrest, with a stare that’s anything but welcoming.

Draco always had the feeling that cats don’t like him. So he doesn’t like them neither, and least of all this one.

“So, spill it out!” the Squib says.

“I overheard a talk between a few students who plan to have a wizard’s duel. In the trophy room, at midnight.”

“Is that true?” Filch’s eyes go wide.

Draco nods. “I don’t know about you, but I find this irresponsible. Someone could damage the trophies.”

The Squib’s face splits into an ugly smile full of yellow teeth. He points at the drawer of the Weasleys. “Bet it’s those twins, eh?”

_Twins! A double failure for society ..._

“No, but their younger brother,” Draco says, pretending to brood. “I think his name is Ronald, and his friend encouraged him. He said something like, _‘Rules are meant to be broken.’_ You’ve surely heard of him, of Harry Potter?”

* * *

That night, Draco had almost scrapped his plan. As he stared at the canopy of his bed (because, as so often, Crabbe had decided to snore like a drunken ogre), the image of practicing some of his combat spells on Potter became increasingly clear. He wouldn’t have been able to seriously harm him, but at least to cause him some pain. However, the prospect of never having to see him again was more tempting.

All the more stunned he was the next morning, when he realised that his plan hadn’t worked; Potter and his red-haired dangler were still there, scoffing their breakfast cereals as if nothing happened.

There were two options: Either the two are cleverer than they look and - just like him - never had the intention to go to the trophy room, or this useless caretaker had simply been too stupid to catch them.

Either way, Draco had to face the fact that Harry Potter would stay at Hogwarts for the time being. And in the following week, his anger about this almost vanished.

While exploring the castle, Draco, Nott and Zabini tried to find the so-called “Come and Go Room”, which allegedly transforms itself into whatever a person is in need of - but to no avail.

But one morning, the first-years spotted Selkies, also known as merpeople who live in the Hogwarts lake, swimming past the large windows of the common room from time to time. They have a fish-like appearance, with grey skin, green hair and yellow eyes (Draco told Parkinson that it’s rude to keep her relatives waiting outside).

He also picked up a scrap of conversation between the girls that Parkinson was the only one who hasn’t received a letter from her parents yet because they’re awful busy (apparently, her mother is a fashion designer, which explains her strange clothing). Draco will carefully avoid mentioning her name at home, otherwise his mother might come up with the idea of inviting the Parkinsons to dinner or something!

Anyway, he barely had given Potter a thought - until this morning, when six large screech owls carry a long, suspicious-looking package through the Great Hall and drop it right in front of Potter’s nose.

“What’s that?” Zabini asks, frowning.

“Well, we can find out,” Draco murmurs, turning to Crabbe and Goyle. “Let’s go! Crabbe, leave the plate.”

The two follow him - not without grabbing a few croissants - into the Entrance Hall and line up in front of the large marble staircase. They don’t have to wait long for Potter, Weasley and the mysterious package to come out of the Great Hall. Without hesitation Draco pulls it out of his hands and feels it. As if he didn’t already know what’s inside ...

“That’s a broomstick,” he remarks with a strange mixture of envy and glee, and throws the parcel back to Potter. “You’ll be for it this time, Potter, first-years aren’t allowed them.”

“It’s not any old broomstick,” says Weasley, who has obviously not been taught to speak only when spoken to. “It’s a Nimbus Two Thousand.”

_No!_

“What did you say you’ve got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty? Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same league as the Nimbus.”

_Watch out._

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn’t afford half the handle,” Draco snarls. “I suppose you and your brothers have to save up, twig by twig.”

Crabbe and Goyle mockingly laugh as a squeaking voice sounds beside him, “Not arguing, I hope, boys?”

Draco spins around and looks down at the small Professor Flitwick. “Potter’s been sent a broomstick, Professor,” he blurts out.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” Flitwick nods, beaming. “Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?”

“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” Potter answers, swollen with pride. “And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it.”

Draco feels sick as Potter and Weasley leave the Entrance Hall, chuckling. Distraught, he looks at Flitwick.

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m not authorised to talk about these special circumstances,” he says cheerfully and climbs the stairs. Draco stares after him.

“Do you think they put Potter on the -”

“Of course they did, Goyle! Potter, with his holy scar, gets everything he wants!”

He’d like to take Goyle’s croissant and trample on it. But instead, he tries to deny the cruel truth, at least for a moment.

_‘Surprise, Mr Malfoy, we tricked you! Of course, Harry Potter is going to be expelled from Hogwarts! You, however, are now vice-captain of the Slytherin team, and you will get two brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand, one to fly and one to look at. _

_Mr Weasley will polish the broomsticks regularly to keep them shining, and Mr Potter will live with the cruel Muggles for the rest of his days and bitterly regret that he thought to be better than you._

_Did you truly believe that all this was real, Mr Malfoy?’_

“He did _not!”_ Zabini, who joined them with Nott, looks at Crabbe in disbelief. “A Nimbus?! You know how much they cost?”

Goyle mutters something, and Nott’s jaw drops. “But that’s not fair! Why don’t they put Malfoy on the team? Or all of us?” “Because all the privileges are reserved for those bloody Gryffindors,” Zabini hisses contemptuously.

Just as they start discussing who might have sent Potter the broom, Draco leaves the Hall to get some fresh air. Potter breaks the rules (several times), gets away (several times) and is rewarded with a luxury broom and a position on the Quidditch team. And worst of all, he did not even ask for it.

Draco day was ruined, but even in his sleep, he found no rest. He dreamed of attending the much-anticipated Slytherin try-out. But he messed it up completely, because every time he wanted to take off, he slid off the broom! And instead of Flint, his father was there and gave him a disappointed look, while Potter and Weasley couldn’t stop laughing.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

_"A gigantic monster dog with three heads,” Pansy replies mockingly._

* * *

As the clock tower announces the end of Potions class on Friday, Snape instructs the Slytherins to stay, while the Gryffindors - hectic as always - pack up their things.  
Neville Longbottom looks as if he can hardly believe his luck, that he made it through the class without causing a stir. However, two points have been deducted from Gryffindor when Snape caught Lavender applying the twentieth layer of her cheap lip gloss. And if looks could kill, Harry Potter would have bathed in his own blood (due to this Quidditch-thing the boys have been upset about for a week).  
Pansy couldn’t care less about this issue, but of course she’s pleased that Malfoy is consumed with envy! How could this git dare call her ugly? Apart from the fact that it’s a rude thing to say, Pansy has concluded that, compared to the girls in her year, she’s at least above average:   
Although Tracey has a pretty face, she doesn’t look better than Pansy, because her clothes are insipid. Sally-Anne wears glasses _and_ has no sense of fashion, Hermione - even if she’d comb her hair thoroughly - still has her large front teeth and on some days, Lavender looks like a clown with her bumbling attempts to put on makeup. Parvati, Padma, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff are on a par with Pansy. Only Daphne and Lisa Turpin from Ravenclaw are actually prettier; Millicent and the rest aren’t even worth mentioning.  
Nonetheless, Pansy had thought about asking her mother to send her some face masks, but she still hasn’t received an answer to her first letter. Maybe because of their work stress, her parents forgot that their daughter hasn’t been at home for over a month. Not that this would be so bad, but the questions and pitying looks from the girls are getting annoying ...  
After Longbottom, as the last Gryffindor, has left the room (not without stumbling over his shoelaces and nearly falling down), Snape stands in front of the desk and eyes the Slytherins until their laughter stops.   
He is undoubtedly one of the most competent teachers at Hogwarts, but with his pallid complexion and sunken, dark eyes, one could think that he sleeps in a coffin during the day and flutters around the castle’s towers as a bat at night.  
He crosses his arms and says in an oily voice, “In the first year, Hogwarts teaches seven classes, but not all of them will be equally relevant to your future lives. The sense of asking the stars before using a spell, or knowing the year dates of any goblin rebellions by heart is debatable. However, the fact is that your ability to defend yourself against the Dark Arts can significantly affect your lifespan. Defence Against the Dark Arts should teach you to protect yourself from dangerous, magical beings and attacks. My question for you is: What have you learned in this class so far?”  
Although this question is more than justified, the students exchange confused looks.  
“First we talked about vampires,” Malfoy says.  
“And yesterday, Professor Quirrell mentioned the Curse of the Bogies,” Nott adds.  
“Yes, but the lesson was over before we could practice it,” Sally reminds him. “Next time we’re going to learn how to shoot green sparks into the air.”  
“Impressive,” Snape says dryly. “And would you say that Professor Quirrell’s lessons are understandable and practical?”  
In response, Nott bursts out laughing, thus making the others laugh too. Millicent answers pompously, “You know, sometimes it’s difficult to understand him.”  
Now something strange happens to Snape’s face; the corners of his mouth are twitching, as if they’re fighting the hint of a smile. But a second later, his expression is as gloomy as ever.  
“That was very enlightening. I assume that my valued colleague can give you enough useless knowledge to pass the end-of-term exam in his class. And to be clear, as your Head of house, I want you to pass the exams successfully; all of you.” Snape glances at Goyle. “But he teaches you theoretical defensive tactics and forgets the most important lesson: _Attack_ is the best form of defence!”  
Even though nobody has an idea what Snape is actually getting at, the students listen to him mesmerised.  
“And although my job description doesn’t involve supervising a study group, either in terms of time or money, I feel obliged to prepare you in case of necessity. On Fridays, after the regular class, I offer you to practice simple but effective combat spells.”  
The boys agree loudly, but Pansy doesn’t think much of the idea. After the not so successful flying lesson, why should she take another lesson she doesn’t need? The idea of someone wanting to attack her is absurd! At Hogwarts, the most dangerous thing is this huge gamekeeper, who might crush a student if he doesn’t watch his step.  
“You could learn, what has long become an obligatory element of the first-year curriculum at other schools, and be one step ahead of your classmates from the other houses. Unless you aren’t interested. Then you are free to go.”  
Nobody moves.  
_I hate you all._  
“Fine. Given that you’re focused, thirty minutes a week should be adequate. I suggest we start today. Get your wands out.”  
Enthusiastically, the boys are high-fiving, and Tracey is thrilled as well. “Wow, that’s like a secret club!”  
“Yeah, great,” Pansy says with a sarcastic smile and reaches into the inside pocket of her robe. She looks at her wand, which she thinks is much prettier than the other ones. It’s fawn-coloured, decorated with elegantly curved vines and has an optical separated, oval handle. She bought it from _Ollivander_ in Diagon Alley last summer, accompanied by her house-elf. The choosing of the wand went very quick. Just as she entered the shop, the box on the shelf began to vibrate as if it were about to explode. Mr Ollivander was delighted. As she held the wand for the first time, she felt a tingling that made her giggle.  
_‘Wonderful! Vine and unicorn hair, nine and a half inches, slightly springy. A fascinating mix. This wand was already meant for you when it was carved. It will never serve anyone as faithfully as you, young lady.’_  
Snape obviously doesn’t think so. “Always keep in mind that the wand is only marginally responsible for the intensity of your spell. The magic comes from inside you; if it were otherwise, there would be no Muggles. Now line up, girls next to the front row, boys at the door. We start with simple Disarming Charms. The by far most common one is _Expelliarmus_.”  
“I already know that one,” Malfoy mumbles, loud enough for everyone to hear.  
“Excellent,” Snape replies coolly. “Then you certainly don’t mind demonstrating it in front of the class.”  
“No, sir.” Malfoy grins smugly, takes a few steps forward and points his wand at Snape’s. He moves his wrist sideways, then spirally and says, “Expelliarmus!”  
For a brief moment, the wand in Snape’s closed hand stutters before it gets loose and lands on the floor about a metre behind him.  
“Not bad for a start, but improvable,” Snape says while Malfoy, not quite pleased with himself, turns back to the boys.  
Snape then shows the correct wrist movement to the class. “Good, let’s begin. Those standing in the front will compete against each other. Bulstrode and Goyle, you’re next.”  
“Show him, Milli!” Daphne whispers excitedly.  
Determined, Millicent steps forward and rolls up her sleeves.   
“I’ll count to three. Get ready. One. Two. Three!”  
“Expelliarmus!” Millicent shouts, but nothing happens. Goyle doesn’t succeed either, as he moves his wrist properly, but forgets to say the word. When the others remind him, he calls “Expallimus!” but Millicent has already disarmed him.  
“Ha! Our first point!” Tracey shouts.  
“Your only point,” says Zabini casually, facing Sally. But he screws up the last movement, whereas Sally manages the spell right away. Visibly upset, Zabini turns back again.   
Tracey jumps around like a toddler. “We’re winning, we’re winning!”  
The duel goes on with Daphne and Crabbe.  
“One -”  
“Wait!” Daphne interrupts, putting her wand between her teeth to tie her hair. But Snape continues counting and Crabbe starts at three. The wand gets promptly sucked out of her mouth and falls on the floor next to her. She takes it and turns to Snape indignantly. “That’s unfair, my hair wasn’t in place!”  
“As much as I understand this misery, Miss Greengrass, in a real fight your opponent would hardly wait for you to be ready.”  
“I’m out,” Daphne says pouting and sits down on one of the benches. The boys try hard suppressing their laughter.  
They continue with Tracey and Nott, and the girls lose again; Nott has pronounced the spell more forcefully, so his wand responded faster.  
“Sometimes, subtleties make the difference,” he says with a wink. “For example, if you’re pure- or half-blooded.”  
Tracey sticks her chin out and retaliates, “Better half-blooded than half-brained.”  
With that, she’s getting the laughs, even Nott has to grin - unlike Pansy. She just realises who she’s up against: Malfoy comes forward and looks at her disparagingly.  
She knows he has her at a disadvantage, but she has to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face at any cost.  
“One.”  
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Malfoy sneers, moving into position.  
“Two.”  
He still grins.  
“Thre -”  
“Expelliarmus!” shouts Pansy lightning-fast and highly concentrated, then Malfoy’s wand leaves his hand and slams against the wall behind him. The girls cheer and she exhales loudly. Malfoy’s expression changes from disbelieving to angry, as Snape doesn’t seem to care that she started a fraction too early. But then he returns her satisfied smile and says, “I would’ve let you win anyway, Parkinson. Your life is sad enough.”  
_Pardon me?_  
He laughs and turns to the boys. “Did you know she hasn’t received one single letter from her parents yet? She said they’re too busy writing to her, can you believe that?”  
Pansy frowns. He must have overheard a conversation between the girls at breakfast.  
“I mean, even Potter gets letters, and he doesn’t even have parents, just some relatives who can’t stand him!”  
Crabbe and Goyle join in Malfoy’s laughter, but Nott and Zabini look at her with the same expression as the girls: pitying. Which is worse.  
“Shut up!” Tracey hisses, but he ignores her.  
“Must be tough when your parents care more about their jobs than about you. Maybe they’re just glad to finally get rid of you, ever thought of that?”  
The next few seconds, Pansy will often replay in her mind, especially when she needs cheering up. First, Malfoy laughs as she approaches him, then he casts an uncertain glance at Snape and then, as she pushes him with all her strength, he stumbles back, falling on his bottom. A priceless sight!  
Daphne, Millicent and Sally cover their faces with their hands, while Tracey, Crabbe, Goyle and Nott come running; only Zabini stays at the door and cracks up.  
Snape rushes up to them, looking so intimidating that Tracey and the others literally jump aside. “What,_ in Salazar’s name_, are you doing? Go on, get up!” he snaps at Malfoy, who is still sitting there as if he’s stuck on the ground. When he finally straightens up, he makes a pained face and groans, “Aaah - I think my leg is hurt ...”  
“Don’t embarrass yourself!”  
Now Malfoy looks so puzzled that Pansy would have laughed, if her teacher wouldn’t glare at her. “What was that all about?”  
“I don’t think I have to put up with such talking, Professor,” she says confidently.  
“That’s no reason for losing control, Miss Parkinson.”  
“But he was mean to her!” Tracey encourages her.  
“_She_ pushed _me_, you all saw that!”  
“Yes! I saw it!” Goyle affirms faithfully.  
“Enough!” Snape snaps. “I must say, I expected more from you. Insulting and pushing each other around may be common among Gryffindors, but not Slytherins! I assume you’ve been informed about our code of behaviour. Maybe I should inform your parents about the incident.”  
“No!” whines Malfoy, but Pansy shrugs. “I don’t care.”  
“You don’t say,” Malfoy hisses.  
Snape silences them with a wave of his hand. “On condition that there is peace in this class from now on, I will let you off with a warning. If you feel unable to resolve your differences, I still expect you to treat each other with respect. And if something like that happens again, this course is cancelled for all of you, have I made myself clear?”  
The students nod obediently. Pansy is aware that her behaviour was stupid and childish, but she isn’t sorry at all - it felt way too good for that!

* * *

Until mid-October, Pansy has realised that Malfoy is as cowardly as he looks.   
Because she dared to push him, she was expecting his revenge. An ambush attack, a prank, at least a jostle in passing, but nothing happened to her - except for Crabbe’s and Goyle’s “evil” looks (Malfoy, on the other hand, ignores her completely, like she wouldn’t exist).   
One day, however, something happened she wasn’t expecting anymore: her parents wrote her a letter.  
_How nice you’re still alive!_

To get rid of the girls after school, Pansy goes to the library on the fourth floor.   
Madam Pince, the lean, elderly librarian, eyes her suspiciously through her glasses; maybe because she never saw her before, or because it’s her job to distrust students in general. Judging from her deep worry lines and frown wrinkles, this is her standard expression. Surely, she and Filch would make a nice couple ...  
Between the heavy, dark floor-to-ceiling bookshelves there are metre-long tables with lamps providing a warm light. Just as  
Pansy takes a seat and makes sure once again that the letter is actually addressed to her, someone sits down next to her.  
“Pansy! I can’t believe you’re here!”  
She faces Hermione’s joyfully beaver-smile. “The library is not everyone’s favourite place, but I’m here quite often, you know. Except last Thursday, because I practiced the Lumos Charm, which enlightens the tip of the wand. Oh, you already know that for sure, but everything’s still so new to me! Anyway, I know that Professor Flitwick will teach us the charm during the year - I asked him - but I thought, what’s so bad about being a bit ahead?” Her eyes fall on Pansy’s letter. “Oh, the owl post! That’s so funny, I’m not sure my parents will ever get used to it -”  
Pansy rests her chin on her hand and smiles. “You really are a special girl.”  
Sheepishly, Hermione tucks her hair behind her ears. “Thank -”  
“I mean, you somehow manage to be terribly boring and annoying at the same time.”  
Hermione’s smile disappears. “Why do you say that?”  
“Because you’re unbearable! If you could hear the thoughts of the people around you, they’d shout at you, ‘Go away!’. You’re so smart; didn’t you notice that nobody likes you? Or why are you always alone?”  
Hermione takes a breath, as if to say something. Instead, she sits motionless for a moment, before she jumps up and rushes toward the exit with her head held high.  
“And fix your hair!” Pansy calls after her, followed by a admonitory look from Madam Pince. But Pansy doesn’t care, as she can finally pay attention to her letter. Her mother’s normally neat handwriting is a bit jagged, as if she were in a hurry.

  
_Pansy darling,_

_I just couldn’t write to you earlier, but you know what’s going on here in autumn._

_Your father is stuck in Dublin because several business appointments have been postponed. _

_Since I’m currently home alone, it’s all a bit stressful, and everything has yet to be prepared for this year’s Christmas party._

Pansy can’t help snorting. Her mother won’t lift a finger to prepare the party; she’ll tell her house-elf Tessy what to do and in what colours the salon should be decorated, so she’ll take care of it, like every year.   
She doesn’t really know if her mother is incapable of casting household spells like cleaning, cooking or baking, she just never saw her trying. On the other hand, Tessy even puts on the kettle for tea, so why bother?

_I will definitely invite Francesca Zabini. We have worked together years ago. _

_Who else would you like to see at the party? We could invite your whole class, of course, then I will ask Professor Dumbledore to send me the list of names._

Pansy sighs annoyed. Actually, she doesn’t want to see any of her classmates during the holidays, except Padma perhaps. But she can’t invite her and her parents without Parvati.

_P.S.: I can’t find my diamond earrings anywhere. If you have them, I want you to bring them back when you get home._

_Mum_

Pansy discards her intention not to respond to the letter. In the end, her mother might really invite all of her classmates! She fishes a quill and a parchment out of her bag.

_Hello Mum,_

_I’m sorry you’ve got so much to worry about. I hope Dad comes home soon and Tessy supports you wherever she can._

Pansy is convinced that these lines won’t seem sarcastic to her mother at all.

_Don’t bother with the invitations, most of my classmates go on vacation for the holidays._

_I accidentally packed your earrings, I must have confused them with my own._

She didn’t, of course.

_Give Dad a kiss from me when he gets back._

_Pansy_

She wonders if her mother will visit the masquerade ball that one of her friends is hosting each year on Halloween.   
Over the past few days, she has been picking up talks about Hogwarts upcoming Halloween feast, which seems to be very popular among the students.   
Nevertheless, Pansy would have rather gone to the masquerade ball, surrounded by important people in wickedly expensive gowns. What could be more exciting than that?

* * *

“TROLL - IN THE DUNGEONS!” Quirrell shouts in panic as he runs forward to the High Table. He then sinks to his knees, mumbles, “Thought you ought to know,” and collapses unconscious in front of Dumbledore.  
For a moment, there is dead silence in the Great Hall; everyone is staring at the motionless teacher, who actually should know best how to deal with dangerous creatures. And then, when it becomes clear that this wasn’t a show for Halloween, there is utter chaos – they’re all jumping up and yelling. Girls scream, dishes break and people push and shove each other.  
Pansy stares at the wide open door, through which a giant, ugly, grey-skinned monster could come in any moment, looking for human flesh.  
Suddenly she winces, as it sounds like a firework has been lit; firecrackers are exploding from the end of Dumbledore’s wand. Slowly, calm returns.  
“Prefects,” he rumbles, “lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!”  
Bletchley climbs on a bench. “Listen, guys! First of all, you stay right where you are! You see what’s going on at the door, and you don’t want to be crushed!”  
Daphne looks at him infatuated, wrapping a strand of hair around her fingers until Millicent tells her to get herself together.  
“Since the troll is in the dungeon, we can’t go back to our common room, of course! I’d say we’ll be waiting in the library instead and-”   
“Great idea, Bletchley,” someone suddenly calls from the crowd. A Ravenclaw Prefect with square glasses and a beaming smile makes his way to the front and puts his arm around Amanda’s shoulder. “But mine is better.”  
Bletchley looks puzzled. “Sykes? What are you doing here?”  
“I _think_, unlike our dear Headmaster,” he sighs. “He was either mentally absent again, or he doesn’t like Slytherins very much. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with the library, but you have to admit that it’s more comfortable in our common room.”  
Amanda raises an eyebrow. “It might get a bit too crowded.”  
“No back talk,” he says dismissively. “Otherwise you’ll rat me out to my parents that I didn’t help you, like you used to when we were children.”  
“I vaguely remember,” she smiles. “Thanks, Alex.”  
“Anything for you, honey.”  
Bletchley nods to him and turns back to the Slytherins. “All right, you heard it: We’re going up to Ravenclaw Tower. Anyone not behaving can go troll hunting, got it?”  
Under normal circumstances, Pansy would be thrilled to learn that she’s going to see the premises where her father once lived. But their fear dampens the mood, so the students can only smile faintly about Bletchley’s last sentence.  
The Prefects and some seventh-years station themselves around the Slytherins and Ravenclaws, with their wands out. Then they start moving through the less crowded Entrance Hall and climb the marble staircase.

Their way leads them to the west part of the castle and to the fifth floor, from where they climb a long spiral staircase. With every metre they put between themselves and the troll, the atmosphere becomes more relaxed and the first students can be heard laughing again.  
There are many steps. Very many. Too many, if you’d ask Vincent Crabbe. Judging from his heavy breathing, his massive body still hasn’t gotten used to the fact that Hogwarts is full of stairs.  
They finally stop in front of a door with a bronze-coloured knocker in the shape of an eagle instead of a handle.  
Alex Sykes grabs the ring and knocks. The eagle then comes to life, opens its beak and asks in a deep, gentle voice, “What is the end of everything?”  
Before Pansy can think about this weird question, Terry Boot, a Ravenclaw first-year, shouts, “The letter G!”  
“Correct.” The door opens and the Slytherins moan.  
Daphne frowns. “Huh?”  
“How cool is that?” says Tracey, and Sally asks fascinated, “What happens if you don’t know the answer?”  
“Nothing,” explains a girl next to them. “But then you can’t get in. If the riddle is very difficult, it’s a funny chance to meet a lot of fellow students.”

They enter the common room. Its high, dome-shaped ceiling is painted with the constellations of the night sky and on the walls, aside from bookshelves, there are arched windows, which, even in the moonlight, offer a fantastic view of the lands.  
Beneath the windows, there is space for several people to sit on upholstered benches. They’re of the same midnight blue as the carpet.  
Under an archway, framed by two bronze eagles, stands the white marble statue of a woman wearing a tiara. As she is given such a prominent spot, this must be Hogwarts founder Rowena Ravenclaw.  
_How snobbish, a portrait was apparently not good enough for her..._  
Behind the statue, more doors probably lead to the dormitories.  
While Daphne and the others grab a seat beneath one of the windows, Pansy looks around the room, which seems a bit crowded due to the unexpected guests.  
Many Slytherins are standing together in small groups, but especially the older students are talking to their Ravenclaw classmates. The Prefects laugh about something, a Slytherin boy and a Ravenclaw girl are holding hands and even the glum-faced Marcus Flint gesticulates wildly during his conversation.  
“Pansy! Here!” someone suddenly calls. It’s Padma, who shares a Recamier with Lisa Turpin and Anthony Goldstein and beckons her over. They make space Pansy to sit down.  
“So, what do you say?” Padma asks beaming.  
Pansy smiles patronisingly. “It’s not a patch on _our_ common room, but it’s pretty nice. I like the blue.”  
“But the best thing is the view,” says Lisa. “On the first days, I used to get up early, so I wouldn’t miss the sunrise.”  
“I can imagine. It’s not a patch on _our_ view, but it’s -”  
“Okay, we got it!” Padma grins and waves her hand dismissively. “So, what’s the news?”  
“I’ve heard a troll is loose in the castle.”  
“Really!”  
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard the same,” smiles Anthony.  
“Sounds awful,” Lisa says in mock horror.  
“Yeah, but I have a theory.” Pansy looks over to the girls. “The whole thing was just a confusion with Millicent. She wasn’t wearing makeup.”  
The Ravenclaws giggle.  
“But seriously, has Dumbledore forgotten that we live in the dungeon, right where the troll was seen? How could he send everyone back to their common rooms?”  
Anthony shrugs. “Neither did it occur to him, that it would’ve been safest to close the doors of the Great Hall and keep everyone waiting there.”  
“Now that you mention it ...”  
Nott and Zabini join them.  
“What’s up?” Nott asks, holding a bag of sweets out to them.  
Lisa reaches for it. “The troll-thing.”   
“That doesn’t make sense, does it?” Nott mumbles. “I mean, Quirrell’s class is one thing, but shouldn’t he been able to deal with a troll? As far as I know, they’re quite stupid. And what did he do in the dungeon, anyway?”  
“We already had that issue,” says Zabini. “Quirrell isn’t qualified at all, the man is afraid of his own shadow! I wonder how he convinced Dumbledore to give him the job.”  
“My parents used to joke that the position is cursed,” Anthony interjects. “Throughout their school days, no Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher lasted more than a year.”  
While Nott, Zabini, Lisa and Anthony analyse the strange events of the evening, Pansy and Padma continue their conversation. “How is little Winston doing?”  
Pansy sulks. “I barely see him anymore. He likes roaming outside, but at least he comes back at night. He won’t like the holidays at all; our garden is tiny.”  
“Then leave him here.”  
“No way, he can’t miss Christmas at the Parkinson’s. By the way, you must come visit me on 26 December, my mother is giving a party and everyone will be there.”  
“That sounds great, and I’d really love to, believe me! But my parents will never allow it. This time of the year, our whole family gets together, it’s going to be loud, cramped and annoying and I’ll bear it bravely. Besides, Parvati would hate me.”  
“She would just envy you, so what? She can have a good cry on Lavender’s shoulder.” Padma sighs. “I’m afraid, since she’s hanging with that silly goose, her IQ has dropped by five points.”  
Just as Pansy wants to laugh, Malfoy suddenly shows up.  
“How do you think the troll got in here?” he asks, grabbing Nott’s bag to pick out his favourite sweets.  
“I bet Peeves is behind it,” Padma replies.  
“I don’t think so,” Anthony says. “Peeves is annoying, but not homicidal. Could it be that the troll was kept in that forbidden corridor?”  
Pansy feels certain that there’s nothing dangerous in any of the castle’s corridors, and she’s not the only one.  
“Please!” says Malfoy, rolling his eyes. “If Dumbledore would really hide a death trap in the castle, my father would’ve told me all about it. He’s Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors.”  
_Oh, he is?_  
“See?” Nott says to Zabini, “Dumbledore just made a joke that wasn’t funny. Adults do that all the time.”

In the course of the evening, some Halloween stories are told.  
Padma tells how she and Parvati stirred up a whole Muggle neighbourhood a few years ago by handing out Fizzing Whizzbees to the children. Those large sherbet balls let a person who sucks on them float a few inches off the ground (it required several Memory Charms from the Obliviator Headquarters, so the Ministry could cover up the incident, but they never found out who was behind this prank).  
Malfoy then tries to make them believe that he once escaped a child-eating hag after knocking on her door for sweets. For some reason, the story ends with a spectacular broom chase, and Pansy zones out.   
She barely listens, while Zabini tells of a pack of werewolves supposed to be living in the Forbidden Forest, when suddenly the Ravenclaw Prefect gives the all-clear; Professor Flitwick has confirmed that the troll has been overpowered in the girls’ bathroom on the first-floor.  
Pansy considers asking Dumbledore to go home for Halloween next year. So far, she’s not very delighted with Halloween at Hogwarts.

* * *

A few days later, the excitement about the troll has calmed down (and the ridiculous rumour, that Harry Potter helped the teachers knocking him out, has gone quiet).  
In fact, there’s currently only one topic of conversation at Hogwarts: the upcoming Quidditch season.  
Since Quidditch has been played for generations in pure-blood families, most Slytherins have a clear opinion on teams, past games and players, as for Quidditch at Hogwarts and the professional league. Accordingly, in the common room and during the meals, debates are kicked off regularly. While the Gryffindors like to yell around technical terms and slogans incoherently, the Ravenclaws seemingly want to prove that they’re not just bookworms, but also sporty, as they don’t talk about anything else, neither. And even the Hufflepuffs, many of whom have no clue about Quidditch, support their team - which most often loses - unwavering.  
In short: The whole school is over the moon, and there is no escape.

It’s Saturday, and everyone is getting ready for the first game - Slytherin versus Gryffindor.  
The girls take their seats on one of the approximately fifteen-metre high tribunes, standing around the Quidditch pitch. They have the same height as the three golden rings, each attached on pillars at both ends of the field.  
Although the sun is shining bright, Pansy pulls the silver-green scarf up to her nose, because the air is so cold. Here, away from civilisation and surrounded by mountains and lakes, November is much more uncomfortable than in London. On some days, the courtyard is abandoned, as the students prefer spending their free time in front of a fireplace. That’s exactly where Pansy would like to be right now. She hates Quidditch, as much as the cold. The only thing that could lift her mood would be a victory for Gryffindor - then things would finally get back to normal in the common room and Malfoy would probably be so mad that he’d pull the skin off his face with his bare hands!  
He seemingly still hasn’t coped with the fact that Harry Potter has joined the team and makes his debut as the Seeker today. A few days ago, he suggested Neville Longbottom running around on the pitch, holding a mattress to catch Potter if necessary (and the idea didn’t seem unreasonable to Longbottom at all).  
“I’m so excited!” says Tracey. “This is my first Quidditch game ever!”  
As if on cue, Millicent explains the rules to her: “There are seven players per team; three Chasers carry the Quaffle through one of the opposing rings, one Keeper protects his own rings, two Beaters try to knock the opposite players off their brooms with the Bludgers, and one Seeker has to find and catch the Snitch.”  
“The Snitch is that small golden sphere with wings, isn’t it?”  
“Yep. If the Seeker catches it, he gains one-hundred and fifty points, so his team most likely wins.”  
“Wait, does that mean when the Snitch gets caught, the game is over, even if it’s only lasted a few minutes?”  
“I told you, Quidditch is bollocks,” Pansy snorts. “And the other twelve players are stupid for even trying.”  
Tracey shrugs. “I bet it’s less boring than soccer.”  
In this moment, both teams appear on the field, one dressed in emerald green, the other one in scarlet red. They’re greeted with thunderous applause. Referee Madam Hooch briefly discusses something with the team captains, before blowing her whistle, whereupon the brooms rise up into the air. The game begins and the voice of an overambitious commentator echoes through the stadium.  
Pansy looks around listlessly. The whole school seems to have gathered on the tribunes, including the teachers. On the other side, a few first-years are holding up a banner with the crude slogan _Potter for President._ Two rows below, she witnesses how Goyle’s stupidity can hardly be beaten; he keeps shaking his binoculars, as he obviously thinks they’re broken, but he’s holding them the wrong way around.  
Anyway, everyone is focused on the game, but Pansy wishes herself back into the castle. She would take a hot shower, paint her nails and enjoy being alone in the dorm.  
_Alone._  
She can’t help thinking about leaving to have a lazy afternoon - with any luck, the game goes on for hours!  
With a snivelling expression, she explains to Tracey, who’s sitting next to her, that she has an upset stomach, and before she knows it, she’s already on her way back to the entrance portal, which is fortunately unlocked.

Her footsteps echo from the walls of the empty Entrance Hall. Like every day, she passes the huge hourglasses of the four houses, but for the first time she notices, that the points have the form of tiny gemstones. The emeralds of the Slytherins are only a few inches higher than the Ravenclaws’ sapphires.  
She wonders if Slytherin will win the House Cup for the seventh time in a row, when she suddenly hears footsteps. She turns around and looks into Tracey’s suspicious face.   
“Are you feeling better?”  
Pansy quickly stoops over. “No, um, I’m still sick. I was just about to go downstairs.”  
“Hmm ... why don’t I buy that from you?”  
_Why don’t you just disappear?_  
“It’s the truth,” murmurs Pansy, sounding not very convincing.  
Tracey gasps. “I know! You wanna sneak into the forbidden corridor, admit it!”  
_“What?_ I mean - yes! Yes, you caught me, I wanted to see what this is all about.”  
“I knew it!”  
“But you certainly don’t want to miss your first Quidditch game, so ... I’ll tell you about it later,” Pansy climbs the marble staircase, hoping to finally get rid of Tracey. But she comes after her.  
“Oh no, forget it! How do you think does it look like when they find your dead body and it’s me who last saw you alive?”  
“Now you’re overstating.”  
“Don’t argue with me, I won’t let you walk to certain death! Whether you like it or not, I’m coming with you!”  
Pansy wants to protest, but then she stops; in the corner of her eye she sees something small, gray beside her feet. It’s Mrs Norris.  
Tracey grabs her arm and pulls her away. “Let’s get away before Filch gets us!”  
“First, I’ll blame you,” Pansy hisses, “and second, I can walk alone!”

As Mrs Norris doesn’t follow them, they slow down when they reach the third floor.  
In one of the corridors, Tracey stops by the portrait of a man, who raises his scotch glass to them. She waffled on something about Muggles who never move in pictures but Pansy hardly listens. Her plan had almost worked out, and she wouldn’t have had to walk around with this nuisance! Apart from the fact that she isn’t freezing anymore, her situation has not improved.  
“How did you know I was lying?” she asks sulky.  
“I believed you, until I saw you in the Entrance Hall. When I’m having a stomach problem, I don’t waste my time looking at hourglasses or something.”  
“Why did you follow me then?”  
“I wanted to see if you need help. Some become dizzy when feeling sick.”  
Pansy snorts. “How touching, but I don’t need a babysitter.”  
“Wow ... it’s not easy.”  
“What?”  
“Liking you.”  
Pansy stops. “What do you mean?”  
“I’m really trying, but then you say, well, things like that. Or how you handle Millicent ... it’s a wonder she still follows you around like a puppy.”  
“Well, I’m lovely.”  
“I’d say you’re lucky that a lot of Slytherins get impressed by a surname. In another house, you’d probably be a loner.”  
“What makes you think that?”  
“Haven’t you noticed? Millicent smarms over you because of your mother, Daphne doesn’t even have an own opinion and Sally is just glad being part of a group. It’s nothing more than a friendship of convenience! Sorry to disappoint you.”  
Pansy looks at her in amusement. Of course the girls like her.  
“I wonder who becomes a loner when they hear about your thoughts.”  
Tracey sighs. “Just because somebody is weird in some ways, he can still be - _lovely_, like you said ... even you. Kind of.”  
As Pansy doesn’t know what else to say, she snarls, “You’re weird yourself!” and continues on her way. As if she would take a girl seriously, that dresses like a boy ...

After a few minutes of silence, they reach the Charms Corridor.  
“What do you think we’re about to discover?” Tracey asks, sounding a little nervous.  
“Most certainly nothing evil,” says Pansy, rolling her eyes. “I imagine Dumbledore hiding something valuable and has to keep the students away somehow.”  
“But why doesn’t he keep that something in his office? Or in Gringotts, the wizarding bank? Their security standards seem to be higher than at any Muggle bank.”  
“May I remind you of Halloween? Dumbledore’s decisions are meaningless.”  
Now, they have reached the end of the corridor and enter the narrow, gloomy passage which is normally guarded by at least one Prefect.  
“Anyway, I think there’s some truth behind that ‘very painful death’.” Tracey wrinkles her nose. “Wow! Have you ever seen such an ugly tapestry?”  
“No,” says Pansy. The pattern consists of apples and bay leaves, and the background colour is reminiscent of vomit.  
The passage eventually ends in front of a door, barely distinguishable from all the others - except for the large iron padlock.  
Pansy takes one last look over her shoulder to make sure they’re unobserved, and gets her wand out. “So, let’s go. Alohom -”   
“Are you crazy?” Tracey exclaims in shock, slapping Pansy’s wand out of her hand.  
Pansy picks it up and glares at Tracey. “What do you suggest we do? Knocking?”  
“Ha, ha. How about just a little caution? I don’t intend to snuff it in the near future!”  
“And I don’t intend standing around doing nothing! If you’re scared, then go.”  
Tracey nibbles on her lower lip, before pressing her ear against the door. “Maybe we can hear something.”  
“Too bad Millicent isn’t here,” mumbles Pansy, grinning. “We could just shove her inside and see if she gets out alive.”  
“Shhh!”   
After a while, Pansy pushes Tracey aside. “Let me see!” she says, bending down to the keyhole.  
“So?” she hears Tracey whisper.  
Concentrated, she stares into a black nothing. “It’s too dark. I can’t see anything.”  
But then, for a brief moment, she feels like recognising a shadowy movement ...  
“HELLO THERE!”  
“AAAAHH!!!” Pansy and Tracey whirl around and almost jump into each other’s arms in shock. The poltergeist hovers above them with a most satisfied face.  
“Damn it, Peeves!” Tracey gasps. “Do you have to frighten us like that?”  
Peeves giggles. “Considering that the newbies aren’t allowed here, they seem pretty busy.”  
“You’ve got it,” Pansy retorts sharply, her heart still pounding like mad. “And now get lost!”  
“No, wait - since you’re here, you can make yourself useful.” Tracey points at the door. “Look what’s in there!”  
Peeves looks blankly at her for a few seconds, before he bursts into laughter, throwing back his head. “Listen to this, the newbies want me to do them a favour! Ha ha ha!”  
While Pansy rubs her forehead, wondering what she’s actually doing here, Tracey clears her throat. “That’s very rude, Peeves! Are you sure we should say _that_ to him? The Baron gets mad at jokes about the bloodstains on his robes, you know. But if you insist ...”  
Suddenly Peeves freezes in his movements, as if someone had pressed the pause button. Then he defiantly crosses his arms. “You’re playing unfair! Peeve’s revenge will be horrible!” he shouts and disappears into the wall.  
“Not bad,” Pansy admits.  
“Thanks ... he’s easier to manipulate than I thought.”  
When Peeves shows up again, he grins broadly. “Uh-oh, that Cerberus in there is quite bad-tempered! If you don’t wanna take him for walkies, you better get out of here - though, he wouldn’t mind a couple of newbie-treats!”  
Tracey frowns. “What’s a Cerberus?”  
“A gigantic monster dog with three heads,” Pansy replies mockingly. “He’s lying.”  
Without another word, Peeves clenches his fist and hammers at the door. And then they hear it: a sinister growl that seems to come right out of the depths of hell.  
The girls look at each other with eyes wide open. Now it’s Pansy who pulls Tracey by her sleeve. “Come,” is all she can get out, and they run off, with Peeves whooshing over their heads, laughing. “RUN! FASTER! OR HE WILL EAT YOU ALIVE!”

When they’re back in the Entrance Hall, they plunk themselves down on the steps to catch their breath.  
Pansy leans her head against the railing. “So, we just found out that we live under the same roof with a Cerberus. The question is, what do we do with this knowledge?”  
“Nothing!” Tracey says firmly. “First the troll, now this _thing_ \- if my dad finds out, he'll send me straight to one of those Muggle schools, and you have no idea how much I hate maths ... wow, do you know that you almost unlocked that padlock?”  
“Well, then we would have had to sing.”  
Tracey raises an eyebrow. “Sing?”  
“It’s said that a Cerberus falls asleep when he hears music.”  
“Oh, sure. Of course he does. Good thing I don’t hit one single note.”  
The two look at each other and laugh out loud. The idea of somebody practically singing for his life - badly, to top it all - is pretty funny.  
Finally, Tracey gets up. “Let’s see how the game is going.”  
“I think we don’t have to bother,” says Pansy, as there are voices and cheers growing louder from outside.  
Tracey sighs. “At least we can celebrate now that Slytherin has won the game.”  
“How do you know who has won?”  
“Because it’s always us.”


	8. Winter is here

* * *

_The Malfoys are all the same - tall, blond, handsome and absolutely elitist._

* * *

At the beginning of the school year, Draco had a clear image in his mind of how Christmas would be for him:

First, along with other expensive gifts, he would have unpacked a brand-new, highly polished Nimbus Two Thousand that he wouldn’t have put down for the rest of the holiday. During the meal, as a new player on the Slytherin team, he would have raved about the countless hours of training and how he won his first game in the battle for the Quidditch Cup, and entertained his parents at dessert with stories about Harry Potter, who is always dogged by bad luck.

Now that Christmas is coming, Draco’s image is still clear:

He will _not_ unpack a Nimbus Two Thousand, because he cancelled this order long ago (he doesn’t want anything that Potter gets before him!). Instead, he will pretend that the other gifts are good enough to replace his heart’s desire. During the meal, he will _not_ talk about his new learned flight manoeuvres and how he contributed to Slytherin’s first victory this season, because unfortunately, first-years are only admitted into the team if their faces are disfigured by an ugly scar. Instead, he can extensively report about the match against Gryffindor that Slytherin lost thanks to Harry Potter, the lucky sod. Draco will skip the dessert; he still loses his appetite when he thinks about the game ...

Everyone had come to see Potter play as the new Seeker. If at least he’d been made a Chaser or Beater, but no - of course he has to be the star of the team!

However, Draco obtained a little satisfaction: In the course of the game - which was commented by a very partisan Gryffindor student - it became clear that Prince Potter could have used more practicing. He probably wanted to perform a stunt and overestimated himself because suddenly he lost control of his broom. It looked like the Nimbus was trying to shake him off with jerky zigzags and bucking. Well, who could blame it?

Both Gryffindor Beaters (two of Weasley’s nineteen siblings) tried to help, but Potter’s broom jumped higher every time they got near him. To watch the spectacle, they all had to throw back their heads.

Draco had never flown so high. Up to the roof of the Malfoy mansion is the maximum height he’s allowed to fly, which is why a height limiting charm is attached to his Comet.

Something like that could have saved Crabbe’s grandfather, who was eager to prove that flying to the moon is not an exclusive Muggle ability. Years before the birth of his grandson, he took off on his broom, passed out from the lack of oxygen after a while and, due to the impact, nothing was left of him but mush.

In any case, Potter survived because the broom obeyed him again at some point. And while there was turmoil on the teacher’s tribune (apparently Snape was performing a tap dance), it was suddenly said that Potter had caught the Snitch.

It turned out that the Snitch had flown into his mouth - so there could be no talk of an actual catch - but once again the rules were changed in favour of the Gryffindors.

The Slytherin common room had never been so quiet. Even when the team entered the room half an hour later, no one said a word, but the icy looks they gave the players spoke for themselves.

Miles Bletchley, Adrian Pucey, Graham Montague, Timothy Truman and Damian Dedworth sat down apart from the others while Marcus Flint rushed furiously towards the dormitories and slammed the door behind him with a loud bang. Only the Seeker, Terence Higgs, was nowhere to be seen. It was rumored Flint told him off so badly that he escaped into the locker room, howling.

Nobody, not even Goyle, whose sense of humour is absolutely modest, laughed at Draco’s remark that next time, a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Potter as Gryffindor’s Seeker. His joke wasn’t even well received from a neutral audience. On the contrary, most of the Ravenclaws had nothing but admiration for Potter for staying on a broom gone mad.

Lost in thought, he sits at the breakfast table and wonders how everything could have gone so terribly wrong.

The teachers go around with a list of students who are going to spend the holidays at Hogwarts. Draco watches Weasley and the boy who lived to annoy him signing up on it.

To complete his self-pity, he could do the same. But then he won’t see his father’s face when he finds out about some things that happened at Hogwarts.

First, there is Dumbledore’s story about a forbidden corridor, with which he spread fear at the start-of-term feast. Then, a first-year almost died during the flying lesson, and their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher is so incompetent that they need additional lessons from Snape to learn anything in this subject.

Of course, that’s all nothing compared to the Halloween disaster. Not only was a troll able to get into the castle in the first place, but the Headmaster also decided to send everybody back to the common rooms without even getting an overview of the situation (supposedly the troll was in the dungeon - good thing the Slytherins were not!). And then it took the teachers forever to find and hunt down the beast.

Apart from that, Dumbledore favours Gryffindors on every occasion. Certainly, his father can do something about this - he is Chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, that should count for something!

There is also another point on Draco’s agenda: getting rid of that obnoxious Parkinson-brat. The fact that she pushed him will most likely not be enough reason for his father to get her kicked out of Hogwarts, but Draco has already worked out a story in which she blackmailed him for money, and Crabbe and Goyle will confirm it, of course.

He has been clinging to this idea for two months now, as he has no choice. Since she is a girl - not to mention a tiny one - hurting her is out of the question. Unlike her, Draco has been well educated! But if she thinks he’ll just let her get away with it, no one has ever told her that revenge is a dish best served cold.

* * *

The inside of the castle has become cold as well. Especially in the dungeon (apart from the well heated Slytherin area) it’s only endurable with a thick wool coat. Nevertheless, the mood is euphoric, because there are only a few days left until holidays. After the snow didn’t melt overnight for the first time, there is no stopping the students; they all want to destroy the perfectly untouched snow cover by leaving footprints and snow angels in it.

The sky is clear, the lake frozen solid. The shore is wide enough for the Gryffindors to have their snowball fights without bothering people (except for idiots like the Weasley twins, who even attack Professor Quirrell with bewitched snowballs).

While Crabbe and Goyle play a game that seemingly consists of nothing but hitting each other with sticks, Draco and Nott watch Zabini picking up stones from the ground for his snowman’s face.

“Ready for the holidays?” Nott asks. His bobble cap with reindeer antlers gets a lot of amused looks, but he wears it with such self-confidence that one could find them almost cool.

Draco shrugs. “I only hope my parents won’t drag me to one of those stupid charity balls again.”

“Would you prefer sitting with my depressed father who keeps wondering about _‘how fast the year went by’_?”

“At least you know what to expect”, Zabini says. “Wouldn’t be surprised if my mother introduced me to her new husband.”

“That’s probably exactly what my father needs.”

Draco grins. “A new husband?” 

“Haha.”

“He’d be the seventh. Believe me, at some point you stop laughing.”

“Maybe you should introduce your parents to each other,” Draco suggests with an innocent expression.

“Better not,” Zabini murmurs and gives the snowman a sad mouth. 

Nott cocks his head. “Who’s that supposed to be, Crabbe? He doesn’t have a neck either.”

Grinning, Zabini takes a tree limb and writes ‘N.L., GRYFFINDORK’ on the snowman’s body, as sudden cheers attract their attention. 

A few metres away, some of the seventh-years transform the students’ shoes into ice skates, whereupon some promptly start a race across the lake. Most of the others spin around slowly, while some are busy getting ahead at all without falling.

Parkinson seems completely helpless, too, as she’s clinging to Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass and still shrieks like a maniac (and that’s probably why she wears those stupid pink earmuffs).

When Davis and Greengrass let her go, she loses her balance after a few seconds and pulls the girls to the ground with her.

Draco laughs maliciously. “Look at her, small like a pixie and graceful like a troll!”

“What do people find in ice skating?” Zabini sighs. “Sooner or later, everybody falls on the face.”

Nott shrugs. “I don’t.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Seriously, I used to practise three times a week. My grandmother insisted that I take skating lessons like my mother did as a child. I was nine when she finally became sober and realised I’m a boy.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Then show us what you’ve got,” Draco demands.

Nott waves dismissively. “Not in the mood.”

“What a pity. Well, I already thought you were lying.”

“I don’t lie! But I’m not even warmed up!”

“LIAR, LIAR, LIAR -”

“Okay, ALRIGHT!” Nott rolls his eyes and thrusts his cap into Draco’s hand. “Hold this for me!” Then he trudges through the snow to the seventh-years. Shortly thereafter, he steps on the frozen surface, turns around to Draco and Zabini and indicates them to watch carefully now.

Draco is about to shout something, when Nott already takes a run-up and rushes past everyone. After a few metres, he jumps up into the air, where he rotates several times like a pro.

“What the -”

The moment he finally lands safely on one leg, the surrounding students break into applause. 

Zabini snorts with laughter. “Man, I had no idea he’s actually the ice queen!”

Draco can’t hide the admiration in his voice. “He never said a word! If I had a talent like that, I’d tell everybody!”

The corners of Zabini’s mouth twitch. “You mean, if you were good at - let’s say - _flying_, you wouldn’t keep it a secret?” asks Zabini, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Oh, shut up.”

The common room is accessible at any time, but after curfew it empties out quickly.

Draco prefers doing homework at this time of the day. He can concentrate much better if he’s not surrounded by the snoring and grunting of his roommates. In addition to the fact that they haven’t learned any spells to block out noises yet, it’s way more comfortable sitting at a table while writing.

After a seventh-year couple finally stops sucking faces _(ugh!)_ and leaves for the night, Draco is left alone. He opens his textbook _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_. In three days, they’ll all be sitting on the Hogwarts Express back to London, but they still have homework to do for that old boot McGonagall. If it were at least spell practising, but instead they’re supposed to write an essay on the perils of not accurate performed Transfiguration spells.

For a while, his quill scratching on the parchment and the logs cracking in the fireplace are the last remaining noises - until someone opens the door of a dormitory and climbs the steps to the common room.

Draco is hardly surprised to see her hated face. With his luck, who of the other approximately seventy students should have come across him otherwise?

When she sees him, she hesitates. But then she marches past him with her cat-thing on her arms (snooty as ever, despite her dressing gown and bunny ear slippers) and sits down on a sofa by the fireplace with her back to him.

It is said, to make the Killing Curse work, the casting person must have the truly intention to kill. Draco looks at the back of her head and is convinced that he could easily manage the curse here and now.

Her mere presence distracts him; she’s like a big black spider that hopefully stays in its corner. On the one hand, you want to forget it’s even existing, on the other hand you have to make sure every few seconds that it hasn’t come closer ...

Suddenly, the cat mews and then dashes across the common room as if stung by an adder. It speeds from corner to corner, jumps over armchairs and tables, making noise like a herd of elephants. After about a minute, it’s all over.

Parkinson giggles. “Come here, Winny!”

The cat with the stupid name licks its paw and hops back on the sofa as if nothing had happened.

“You mustn’t be so loud,” she explains. “Some people are unable to do their homework at a normal time, and we don’t want to bother anyone.”

Without looking up from his parchment, Draco stops.

She continues, “You know, some people make fun of others to cover up the fact that they’re homesick for Mummy and Daddy. That’s why they keep getting letters and sweets as if they were little babies. They think that’s cool, but it’s actually embarrassing.”

At this moment, Draco wants nothing more than her to keep her mouth shut. So he takes a deep breath and calls, “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

Parkinson screams and falls from the sofa onto the floor. A moment later, she peeks out from behind the armrest, only to find that Draco is still holding the quill in his hand instead of his wand. With a bright red head and dishevelled hair, she straightens up.

He grins wryly. “Some people have a face that even a mother can’t love - that’s why they don’t get letters_ at all_.”

She glares at him angrily and strokes her hair. “Let’s go, Winston! Some people are seriously disturbed!” Then she grabs her pet and rushes back to the dormitories, looking over her shoulder suspiciously.

_Yes, better watch out._

Draco can’t wait to have her kicked out of Hogwarts. Potter may have gotten away, but this time his plan has to work out.

* * *

While Zabini canvasses the train compartments to make sure nobody owns Helga Hufflepuff’s Chocolate Frog Card, Goyle stares at the back of the _Daily Prophet,_ behind which Nott has disappeared (Draco isn’t sure whether he is actually reading the newspaper, or trying to act grown-up - but maybe he just doesn’t want to watch Crabbe stuffing himself with candy).

He looks out of the window, thinking about the two things he will miss the most about Hogwarts. For one, Snape’s defence course, which unfortunately had been cancelled yesterday. Despite the unpleasant incident of the first lesson, those practical exercises are more fun than most regular subjects combined.

After two months, everyone - even Goyle - has figured out how to disarm people. They also learned the Tongue-Tying Curse, which prevents the enemy from casting any spell, and the Leg-Locker Curse, which sticks the legs of the victim together. They’re still far from that in Quirrell’s actual Defence class.

And, of course, he won’t get the chance to annoy Gryffindor’s loser duo, like he did yesterday. He teased Potter for staying at Hogwarts because he doesn’t have a proper family and Weasley for his family living in poverty. Crabbe and Goyle giggled, Potter pretended not to have heard him and Weasley almost grabbed him by the collar - which is why Snape deducted five points.

Actually, not that much has changed since the beginning of the school year.

When the Hogwarts Express arrives at King’s Cross station in the evening, the platform nine and three-quarters is crowded. It takes like forever before Draco and the others can get off the train, say goodbye and finally leave in different directions.

Even if his parents wouldn’t keep their distance to the crowd, Draco would have quickly noticed the white blond hair.

His father stands as straight as a pole. He’s holding the silver snakehead of his black walking stick, in which his wand is hidden, with one hand, the small waist of his wife with the other. She wrinkles her nose because she has to breathe the same air as ordinary people.

The Malfoys are all the same - tall, blond, handsome and absolutely elitist.

“Welcome back, Draco,” his father greets him, patting his shoulder and taking his suitcase.

Another important Malfoy-characteristic: no emotional outbursts.

“Thank you, Father.” Draco nods and turns to his mother, whose eyes shine suspiciously. “Hello, Mother.”

Smiling, she bends down to him and takes his face with both hands. “Hello darling,” she whispers and kisses his forehead.

Draco grimaces, hoping that none of his classmates is watching right now.

“Narcissa, you’re embarrassing the boy,” says his father.

_Thank you!_

She straightens up and gives her husband a sharp look. “I haven’t seen him in almost four months, Lucius. I’m sorry, but you both have to endure that!”

His father closes his eyes and Draco grins to himself, because everything is fine. Only when his parents will stop arguing one day, he would have to worry.

As expected, in the following days they grill him about his progress in class and seriously ask if he feels well-prepared for the year-end exams, which will take place in half a year. They are also pretty upset about the Halloween incident and start making plans to have Albus Dumbledore fired.

Draco, on the other hand, fully enjoys the conveniences he had to go without at Hogwarts, like the plenty of space (not that Hogwarts would be cramped, but he doesn’t have to share his home with hundreds of other people).

The Malfoys’ impressive mansion has six symmetrically arranged spires and a lot of floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s located in Wiltshire, the southwest of the country, surrounded by several hectares of land and has been owned by the family since the eleventh century. High hedges, behind which the fountains can be heard splashing, line a gravel path that leads to a wrought-iron gate. When Draco or his parents approach it, it turns into a cloud of mist that they can easily walk through (alike the brick wall that leads to platform nine and three-quarters). In order for visitors to be granted access, they have to speak the Latin words_ Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ (‘Purity will always conquer’), which can also be read on the Malfoy family crest. Otherwise, the gate remains locked and contorts into a grinning face. Behind it, a stone staircase leads to the massive entrance door of the villa.

In the entrance hall, the red marble floor is covered by a valuable carpet, and the walls with numerous portraits. They show ancestors of the Malfoy and the Black family, some of them dating back to the Tudor period. As a toddler, Draco once scribbled with crayons on Elladora Black’s portrait and painted her a moustache, which is why she still shakes her head disapprovingly when he passes her.

The ground floor includes a piano room, a small library and the kitchen, which Draco and his parents hardly ever enter; a house-elf named Dobby is on duty around the clock and also responsible for the Malfoys’ meals.

Much more important is the salon, the largest room in the villa, where the family dines, has tea and welcomes guests, and which is now decorated with opulent Christmas wreaths, hollies and a high fir tree glowing gold and silver. Besides a massive fireplace and a crystal chandelier, there is also a pipe organ. A double door leads into the dining room, another one, via steep stairs, to the basement (where the quiet, ancient dressed ghost couple can often be seen waltzing through the air).

In the entrance hall, the double staircase leading to the upper floors is flooded with sunlight that breaks through a glass dome in the roof. At the steps on the first floor, there is a huge oil painting of Draco in, as he thinks, an ugly, red velvet suit with a plate-shaped collar.

This floor offers many rooms for guests, as well as an exhibition room for valuable family heirlooms.

Iron newel stairs on both sides lead to the second and attic floor. Mr and Mrs Malfoy reside in the right wing, Draco has the left one for his own exclusive use.

When it became clear that he would remain an only child, his parents were faced with the task of furnishing the surplus rooms. For some reason, they’d found it reasonable to set up a reading lounge with a fireplace - either in hopes that their son would spend more time here than on his broom, or to take a short cut through the connected salon’s fireplace if they’d want to talk to him.

Until a few years ago, there was also an attic room for storing Draco’s toys. When he has ‘_grown out of this stuff_’, it was turned into an office after his father disposed of the whole interior (except for his old, green plush dragon Monty, which Draco is still hiding in the back of his closet).

And then there’s the room in which his private lessons took place until recently, but a special Christmas surprise awaits Draco: Now, the room is filled with his Montrose Magpies fan merchandise, such as posters, pennants and signed toy broomsticks, which he collected over the years. But there are new things, too, like the current season’s team uniform in Draco’s size, or the miniature version of the home stadium, in which tiny players randomly re-enact the most legendary goals and Snitch catches in the history of the team. Granted, a pretty good replacement for the Nimbus broom!

Of course, there are also boring gifts, such as clothes, school supplies and the annual document issued by the Goblins in Gringotts, which shows Draco’s current and ever-growing fortune (it’s nice to know he never has to work, but he has always known that). From his grandfather Abraxas Malfoy he also gets a golden pocket watch from the twenties.

While having his breakfast the morning after Christmas, Draco would rather watch some Quidditch mini-games than listen to his father complaining about incompetent bank clerks and his mother making a big deal about the wardrobe choices for a party in the evening.

Although his parents don’t have a job in the traditional sense, they are constantly on the move. As they’re on the board of dozens of charities, they get invited to meetings, business lunches, balls or openings all the time. Whatever event will be held today, Draco doesn’t hope for staying home alone. He had never been allowed to. They’re probably afraid he’d take a closer look at the top secret items kept under the trap door in the salon. Draco is pretty sure they have something to do with dark magic, but all he knows is that he has to keep his hands off them.

“Are you looking forward to the evening, Draco?” his mother asks.

While he puts jam on his toast, he asks bored, “Where are we going?”

“I assumed you would know. A classmate’s mother invited us to her home.”

He pauses irritated. “Whose mother?”

“Pansy Parkinson’s.”

CLINK!

The knife slips out of his hand. _This can’t be true!_

“You don’t seem particularly pleased,” his father says.

Draco makes a face as if forced to eat Brussels sprouts. “I_ loathe_ Pansy Parkinson!”

“Don’t be silly,” his mother says gruffly. “I’m sure there is no reason for that. In any case, Mrs Parkinson seems to be very friendly.”

Draco’s father gives her an amused look. “And the fact that she designs luxury clothing doesn’t bother you either.”

Before his mother can say something, Draco cries defiantly, “But I don’t wanna go there!”

“Enough!” she says forcefully. “You will accompany us and be on your best behaviour - and this is not a request! Besides, I certainly don’t have to remind you that the Parkinsons belong to the Twenty-Eight!”

Draco stares at his toast. Why would Parkinson’s mother invite his family to a party? What’s the point? He can of course forget his made-up blackmailing story now, but his mother would turn a deaf ear to his words, anyway. If she has the opportunity to make friends with a fashion designer, nothing and no one will stop her.

Suddenly, he has a terrifying vision of Parkinson’s and his parents visiting each other during the holidays and him and the midget sitting side by side for hours. 

His father breaks the silence. “I wonder what little Miss Parkinson may have done that you react like this.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “She’s just … super annoying!”

“Could you express yourself more precisely?”

“She pushed me, to be exact.” Actually, Draco would rather have bitten off his tongue than admitting that, but with any luck, his parents might change their evening plans after all.

His mother sighs softly. “Draco, you both really should act more mature at your age.”

Not the answer he was hoping for. “But I - I didn’t do anything! I’m innocent!”

“Well, I hardly think she attacked you for no reason.”

“Um ... actually -”

“Whatever may have happened, tonight you have the opportunity to solve your problems.”

“But -”

“Now eat your breakfast.”

_Says the woman who makes her food disappear in napkins._

“Listen to your mother, Draco.”

Grumpily, he takes a bite from his toast. He won’t make peace with that cow for anything in the world, it’s bad enough he das to see her face during the holidays. Maybe next year he’ll be spending Christmas at Hogwarts, just to antagonise his parents.


	9. He, my Elf & I

* * *

_As he’s standing there, with a black suit, a bow tie and slicked back hair, he looks like a gentleman. A good joke._

* * *

While she puts on her new sapphire earrings, Pansy checks her reflection again. After the bubble bath, her cheeks are rosy and her hair is supple, as she brushed it a hundred strokes. So her mother should have nothing to complain about now. After all, she should look perfect when wearing a dress from her new collection.

The party is already in full swing. The surprise, her mother mentioned, comes to her mind. She’ll probably introduce Pansy to an incredibly talented or influential person who bores her stiff.

“Winston! NO!”

The little cat has become aware of the rustling fabric of her ankle-length, black tulle skirt and tries to slip underneath. Pansy pulls the skirt up to her thighs; she won’t even imagine Winston digging his claws into the good piece!

Annoyed, she scurries through her room, looking for something that could act as a cat toy, until her gaze falls on the suitcase. It’s almost empty, except for a few broken quills, an unused notebook she bought only because of its sky-blue cover, and a dented Chocolate Frog box. Pansy wrinkles her nose. She’d bought it on the train ride to Hogwarts, then stuffed it in her suitcase and completely forgot about it. She slowly lifts the lid with a Helga Hufflepuff card underneath, and a slightly faded Chocolate Frog appears. It was apparently sleeping, because it takes some seconds before it looks around, moves and finally hops out of the pack onto her cast-iron, with purple satin covered bed.

Winston’s pupils dilate. He sneaks up to the bed like a predator in the high grass and takes a leap. The frog escapes him, if only just, but at least Winston is busy for now.

Pansy carelessly throws the box back into the suitcase, stands in front of the mirror again and straightens her hairband, which, like the straps, bodice and upper part of her skirt, is embroidered with berry-coloured flowers.

Suddenly there is a plop!, and a hairless creature appears next to her, only half her size, wrapped in fabric remnants of a bright yellow curtain. It has big, green googly eyes, a bulbous nose and pointed floppy ears: Tessy, the Parkinson’s house-elf. Like all elves, she has magical powers, but doesn’t need a wand to use them. In order to apparate like she just did (the ability to disappear from one place and almost instantly reappear in another), she just needs to snap her fingers.

Sometimes Pansy doubts that her mother would be able to live without an elf; Tessy is not only a walking calendar, she also takes care of the house, the garden, prepares the meals and looks after Pansy’s interests, almost like a nanny. It was Tessy as well who picked her up from the platform and brought her home by Side-Along Apparition.

Once, when Pansy was little, she played fashion show and wanted to put one of her dresses on Tessy. At that time she didn't know that, as soon as they are given any kind of clothing, house-elves are relieved of their duties (which is the reason for Tessy’s curtain wardrobe). Fortunately, her father only just managed to prevent Tessy’s release, because you can’t go to a shop and buy an elf, they are passed down from generation to generation. Either you own one or you don’t.

“The wine, Miss, as you requested, Miss,” Tessy says in a high-pitched voice and hands Pansy a glass of self-made white wine.

At the Parkinsons’, drinking alcohol is just as natural as saying “bless you” when someone sneezes - even for Pansy. The only condition: She doesn’t act embarrassing.

“You look very pretty, Miss.”

“I know,” Pansy smiles, swinging her dress. With the wine glass in her hand, she feels quite grown up, so she ignores the fact that the first sips actually taste nasty.

She takes one more look at Winston, who lurks in front of the chest of drawers the frog has fled under, and leaves her room.

With every step, the classical music and muffled voices are getting louder. She walks down the hallway, which, like the rest of the London townhouse, is decorated in dark red tones and works of art and antiques, in order to impress anyone who understands these things (so neither Pansy nor her parents).

Slowly, she descends the winding marble staircase leading to the salon, and stops halfway to get an overview of the numerous guests. It doesn't take long for Pansy to find her godmother Scarlett, joyfully waving to her, the golden bracelets clinking together. Aunt Scarlett has never been a plane Jane. Today she’s wearing a red dress with a very deep neckline, her long blonde hair is teased like a lion’s mane and she has applied too much make-up. Her husband Owen, on the other hand, is wearing a simple suit and a three-day beard. Although he’s not old yet, most of his hair has already turned grey.

Once down, Pansy passes a string quartet, floating trays with canapés and refilling-charmed glasses, and well dressed people sipping on champagne flutes, eyeing each other and faking a laugh. How much she had missed all of that!

A moment later, her aunt gives her a perfumed hug and assures herself several times that Pansy liked her Christmas present (a nail polish that changes colour depending on the mood).

“I hope you’re getting good grades,” Scarlett says with a stern expression, putting her hands on her hips.

“The exams aren’t until June,” Pansy says.

Owen waves dismissively. “Stay relaxed, you’ll take over your mother’s business anyway. Better have fun as long as you can!”

Scarlett indignantly punches his arm. “Maybe she wants to do something completely different later, right, dear? So always make an effort!”

Pansy giggles. “Don’t worry, I’ll be one of the best. Promise!”

After returning to London, Pansy has built a close relationship with Scarlett, who often took care of her because her parents had to work. When Gemma Parkinson started working in the fashion industry, she moved to Paris with Edward, but they stayed only until she had made a name for herself with her own fashion line. She never seemed to have a special relation to France, she says it was her springboard, no more, no less. And although Pansy’s grandparents sent their daughters to Beauxbatons, Gemma always knew that Pansy will visit Hogwarts one day.

Gradually, other familiar faces join them, like columnist Poppy Green, who is responsible for the style and cosmetics section in the _Witch Weekly_ magazine, or Myron Wagtail, who greets Pansy with a kiss on the hand and clinks glasses with her to the fact that she’s been sorted into Slytherin _(what a pity that Parvati and Lavender aren’t here right now)._ Myron looks exactly as it befits a rock star: thin and pale, with dark circles under his eyes and flashy clothes.

The Duvals from Paris, the Parkinson’s former neighbours, have also been invited again.

“Ah, Pansy, chérie!” Madeleine Duval warbles. “Look at her, Philippe, zat dress!”

“Adorable!” her husband trumpets.

“ ’Ow nice to see you,” their daughter Brienne purrs with a strong accent and kisses the air next to Pansy’s cheeks,_ muah muah!_

Brienne was part of Pansy’s clique and used to be winded up because she’s tall. These days, Pansy would like to be a few inches taller, but she’d never say it out loud, of course. After all, she has always been the one who was envied, not the other way around.  
Brienne reports that her clique now only consists of her and Geneviève; another friend, Coralie, moved away with her mother because her parents got divorced (supposedly because of another witch, what a scandal!). When Brienne starts raving about Beauxbatons and how ‘très chic’ the violet-blue uniforms are, Pansy peeks over Brienne’s shoulder to find someone to make fun of. But then, she is puzzled. She didn’t expect to see _this_ someone, and her repeatedly blinking proves that there’s no Fata Morgana. 

“Millicent?!”

“Pardon?”

But Pansy keeps staring at her chubby classmate, who is in fact standing back there, squeezed into a opulent, pink something with puffy sleeves - and talking to Sally-Anne!

“What the -”

“Don’t you feel good?” Brienne asks. “You look pale.”

The next moment, Millicent notices Pansy. And then, as if they hadn’t seen each other for years, she runs towards her and falls around her neck so sweepingly, that half the content of Pansy’s wine glass sloshes to the floor. 

Brienne wrinkles her nose, but Pansy is too shocked to push Millicent away or to feel ashamed in front of her pretty, slim childhood friend for people looking _like this_ at her school.

“I can’t believe we’re at your home, Pansy!”

“Me neither,” she says flatly.

Sally, with her grey sack-like dress that looks like a nightgown, looks around as if someone is going to shout “Boo!” at any moment. She smiles nervously. “Thanks for the invitation.”

Now it dawns on Pansy. The surprise her mother talked about - it’s standing right in front of her! Despite she had written her mother not to invite anyone from her class!

Sometimes Gemma is as thoughtless as successful, which is why her “surprises” often backfire. Exactly like when Pansy got a white horse for her fifth birthday, even though she had explicitly wished for a unicorn. She intended to never speak to her mother again, which she sat through for three hours. Today she knows that she reacted a little exaggerated, but the point is: Had Gemma listened to her husband, they would have told Pansy from the beginning that the private breeding and owning of unicorns is officially prohibited. Not only would they have spared their daughter the disappointment, but also saved the horse from a long journey from Vienna and back again.

Millicent’s voice almost cracks. “Your mother is so nice, she said we can call her Gemma! At first I wanted to ask for an autograph, but then I was like, nonsense, now I know her personally and I’ll meet her more often! Oh, and Blaise Zabini and his mother are here too, they’re standing over there with my parents and Sally’s father.”

But Pansy’s eyes wander through the room, looking for her mother’s dark blonde pageboy haircut, which - except for the colour - looks just like her own.

Meanwhile, Millicent keeps chattering. “I haven’t seen Tracey anywhere, I bet she just didn’t find anything nice to wear, ha ha! Oh, and Daphne is so sad that she couldn’t come! Her sister is ill again, I tell you, in the end, that girl’s only going to survive in an air bubble -”

“Hold this,” Pansy suddenly snaps, thrusting the glass into Sally’s hand. She pulls up her dress and marches off; her parents are standing with their backs to her, welcoming two guests. She is torn between confronting her mother and falling into her father’s arms to whimper a bit.

Pansy stops abruptly. “No!”

She has never seen those two people before, and yet this platinum blond hair immediately reveals their name. And they didn’t come alone; one second later, Malfoy’s face comes into sight. As he’s standing there, with a black suit, a bow tie and slicked back hair, he looks like a gentleman. A good joke.

Gemma turns around, her green eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “There she is! Pansy darling, come and say hello to the Malfoys.”

Pansy steps between her parents, unable to manage a smile. “Mum,” _what’s this crap?_ “What a surprise.”

“Ah, the young Miss Parkinson,” says Mr Malfoy, inclining his head. He is the exact adult copy of his son; the same hair colour, the same pointed facial features - not even a blind person could deny this resemblance. However, his grey-blue eyes radiate even more coldness and arrogance. Pansy bet he couldn’t make a happy face if his life depended on it. His wife seems distant, too, but you just have to look at her. There’s something fairy-like about her: thin, with deep blue eyes, flawless pale skin and long hair that falls down her back in soft waves. She is probably the most beautiful lady present tonight. Gemma can’t keep up with her either, even though she’s always trying hard with her two-hour make-up and ongoing diets and beauty treatments.

Mrs Malfoy gives her a little smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Pansy. You look wonderful.”

At the sight of Malfoy’s annoyed face, Pansy is trying not to laugh. “Oh, the pleasure’s all mine,” she replies with a sweet voice, turning to Malfoy’s father. “We all have heard so much about you, Mr Malfoy. Your son talks about you _all the time!”_

“Not true,” Malfoy grumbles, but his father nods contentedly.

“Well, then you surely know that you can contact me on school matters any time, since I run the Hogwarts Board of Governors.”

“I almost forgot about this!”

“I’m also in good contact with your Head of house Professor Snape.”

“But what’s more important,” says Mrs Malfoy, putting her hands on her son’s shoulders, “I’m confident that you and Draco can resolve your differences and become good friends.”

Pansy can’t think of a polite answer to that. She’d rather have an excuse to run away, but Malfoy is quicker. “Zabini’s over there, he’s probably looking for me.” 

Despite his mother’s stern gaze, he frees himself from her grip and struts away.

“I apologise for my son,” says Mr Malfoy, but Edward Parkinson chuckles, and small laughter lines surround his warm brown eyes. “You know what kids are like. Right, Pancake?”

Even if she finds this nickname a bit embarrassing now, she feels comforted immediately. Her father calls her that because she loves pancakes, his own in particular (which are a rarity, because he works in the International Magical Office of Law at the Ministry of Magic and is sometimes out on business for days).

“Exactly,” says Gemma, “we’re glad that you could make it! Unfortunately we’ve received some declines as well, but everyone was very friendly. Only one family didn’t answer at all.”

“The Goyles, I suppose?”

“Indeed,” she says in surprise, and the Malfoys exchange a meaningful look.

Until now Pansy thought, Gregory Goyle has to be the most uninteresting person in the whole world, but in the following minutes, Mrs Malfoy proves her wrong: As a toddler, Goyle was left with his godparents - Irma and Victor Crabbe - because his real parents were overwhelmed with his upbringing. Since the Crabbes took care of him like he was their own son, whereas the Goyles come to visit infrequently.

While her parents and the Malfoys get het up about the Goyle family, Pansy is suddenly pulled aside. 

“What are you doing?” Brienne asks. “I don’t want to spend the evening wiz your weird new friends!”

“Neither do I,” Pansy sighs, making clear that she actually can’t stand Millicent and Sally, and only befriended them because they have no one else (and as the most popular girl, she has a certain responsibility).

After grabbing drinks from a floating tray and gossiping about other guests for a while, Pansy asks, “So did you hear anything from Coralie after the divorce?”

“She writes zat she’s not sad at all because she now gets twice as many birzday and Christmas presents.”

“That’s so typical! And her mother?”

“ ’As lost a lot of weight.”

“Aww, I’m happy for her!”

The girls giggle until Brienne points in another direction. “Say, who is zis?”

Pansy follows her gaze and spots Malfoy and Zabini talking. “Blondie? An arrogant nasty piece of work, why?”

“No, I mean ze ozer one.”

“Blaise Zabini.”

“Zabini? Sounds familiar.”

“Because of Francesca, the model. That’s her son.”

“Ah ... no wonder zat ’e looks so cute!”

“Are you for real? When did you stop hating boys?”

“Well, I don’t know, zey can be nice sometimes. Certainly, Blaise Zabini is nice, too.”

“You can find him however you want,” says Pansy, rolling her eyes, “I’m not introducing you to each other.”

“Zen I will go and introduce myself.”

“No!”

“No?”

“You are _my_ friend and you are at _my_ home. So stay with me!”

“I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Brienne!” Pansy hisses, staring at her friend going straight into the enemy camp. Nearby, someone is waving the arms. It’s Millicent who beckons Pansy over; apparently she and Sally haven’t moved an inch. She’s probably keen to babble about how great everything is - her mother, her dress, the house and the towel rails in the guest bathroom. But from there, Brienne could at least notice Pansy glaring at her. She won’t be talking to Zabini forever - what about, anyway? Make-up tricks? The latest celebrity gossip? The problem that the trend colour purple looks hideous on her?

She empties her champagne glass, which instantly refills itself, exhales audibly and walks over to her classmates. 

“Sally!” _Where did you dig this dress up?_ “How are you?” Pansy asks and glances over to Brienne, who shakes Zabini’s hand and laughs about something.

“Fine, um - here, your glass,” Sally replies, holding out the wine glass to Pansy from before, which is still almost half full.

“Don’t you like white wine?”

“I not allowed drinking alcohol.”

“Me neither,” says Millicent grumpily, taking a sip from a bottle of Pumpkin Juice.

“That’s too bad.” Pansy shrugs and takes the glass. “But we shouldn’t waste any of it, it’s self-made by our house-elf.”

“Does your elf appear right on the spot when you call it?” asks Millicent.

“Yes, but my mum doesn’t like that when we’re having guests, because she thinks that would come across as pretentious, and besides, Tessy is quite ugly.”

“Daphne would get on your nerves the whole evening. She has a soft spot for house-elves, don’t ask me why.”

“It would be nice if Daphne were here, or Tracey,” says Sally.

Pansy swirls her wine glass in small circles, like adults do. She is still upset about Tracey’s claim that the girls only pretend to be her friends. 

“Do you like Tracey?”

“Yes.”

“She’s okay ... but I’m annoyed with her constant ‘Wow’, and seriously, no normal person is in such a good mood all the time!”

“If at least her kindness wasn’t faked,” Pansy sighs.

“What do you mean?”

She takes a sip and clears her throat. “During the Quidditch game, when I got sick and Tracey accompanied me back to the dormitory, she said that I’m the only one of you she actually likes. Of course, I promised not to tell you, so please don’t speak to her about it. I just thought you should know where you stand with her.”

Millicent seems to search for words expressing her outrage, while Sally looks calm. “I wouldn’t take this too seriously, we’re still going to be good friends.”

_You’re a freak, you know that?_

Millicent crosses her arms. “Oh, yeah? What makes you think that?”

Sally looks at them both, nibbling on her lower lip. “I’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“Us becoming friends. I dreamed of it, well, it wasn’t a dream in the traditional sense, although I was asleep, of course -”

When Pansy and Millicent exchange uncomprehending looks, she takes a deep breath and says, “I’m a seer.”

Pansy raises the glass to her lips, but then freezes. “You are what?”

“A seer. Seers have the ability -”

“I know what a seer is, I mean - _whaaat?”_

Sally laughs softly. “It never seemed the right time to tell you, but now I was thinking, whatever, everything will fall in place somehow.”

Millicent looks at her with a mixture of curiosity and distrust, and holds out her hand. “Prove it! Read my fortune.”

“Sorry, I can’t do it this way.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t predict something by concentrating or reading tea leaves, my visions just happen, and only when I’m sleeping. They feel like a dream. But I have ordinary dreams as well, about things that have happened or which don’t make sense, you know.”

“How can you tell dreams from prophecies, then?” Pansy asks.

“I can’t, at least usually. But in this case I can, because I’ve seen you all before. And when we came to Hogwarts I recognised your faces. And the green uniforms. That’s why I asked the Sorting Hat to send me to Slytherin, not to Ravenclaw as he suggested.”

“Wait, wait!” Millicent calls. “You asked the hat?”

“Kind of.”

“And you were supposed to be a Ravenclaw, but he changed his mind at your request?”

“I guess so.”

“Wicked ... but what’s even more important: Did you ever have a dream about me?”

While Millicent processes her questionnaire, Pansy takes big sips from her two glasses. What’s going on right now? Suddenly, nobodies like Goyle and Sally have dramatic family stories or inherent superpowers in store. Perhaps it is all the rage now to have a fancy secret and Pansy should get one as soon as possible.

Millicent’s gaze, with which she looks at Sally, gives her an uneasy feeling. This is how she looked at Pansy when she found out about her mother.

Absent-mindedly, she puts the glasses on a floating tray, tilts her head back and takes deep breaths. The wine warms her body, the champagne softly rushes in her ears and the room starts spinning. She feels like sitting on a slow merry-go-round.

Suddenly, she thinks it would be an excellent idea telling Millicent that she looks like a hippo in a ballerina costume. And Brienne that she can count herself lucky for being her friend. And her father that she loves him. And the Malfoys that they raised a snotty brat. But above all, she has the urgent need to get some fresh air.

Brienne, who is still deep in conversation with Zabini, stands with her back to Pansy. She throws her hair back a bit too often, which looks silly; even Malfoy seems to have done a runner. When Pansy passes her, she bumps into Brienne, who has to cling to Zabini to avoid falling over.

“ ’Ey!” Brienne shouts in surprise.

“Ooh, I mustn’t have been looking,” Pansy replies without turning around.

Shortly afterwards she steps out of the crowd and into the narrow hallway leading away from the salon. The left door leads into the kitchen, the opposite one into the winter garden, which also serves as the dining room, because her mother finds it inspiring to have a look at the nature (unfortunately, the only meal that Gemma manages to take while sitting is dinner, when the small garden already lies in darkness).

Before Pansy opens the door, she hesitates; light shines through the keyhole. She turns the knob, opens the door - and is startled when she finds someone sitting at the head of the long dining table.

“Malfoy,” she says, disgust in her voice. He, however, keeps sitting there unperturbed, with his feet put on the table and a tray full of chocolate fairy cakes on his lap, which were intended for all guests!

For a second, she considers to go snitching on him, but then realises she’s hungry. With her chin raised, she walks up to him. When she stands in front of him, she pulls the tray towards herself with a jerk, turns around and sits on the table a few metres away. Then she starts shoving one cake after another into her mouth and tries to collect the thoughts rattling around her head.

So Sally is a seer. This undoubtedly makes her the most admirable girl in her year, maybe even the whole school! She’ll definitely get the most attention and the other girls will surround her every morning to analyse her dream. How is Pansy supposed to keep up with that?

But maybe she’d have never had to deal with this problem - maybe she would have ended up in Ravenclaw if she had only asked the Sorting Hat for it. And then? First of all, the strange, grumpy Snape wouldn’t have been her Head of house, but Professor Flitwick, and that he had already taught her father might have been an advantage. Besides, she could not only have spent the whole day with Padma, she even would’ve stayed friends with Parvati (but not with Lavender, who is actually brainless). No hostilities from the other houses, no bearing with Millicent, Tracey or -

She remembers who else is in the room with her. She glances at Malfoy, who leans back, his arms behind his head and stares at the ceiling.

“What are you doing here?” She asks coolly.

“Waiting for you to leave again.”

“How funny you are, but what I meant is: Why are you here in my house?”

Now he returns her gaze. “You got me, I just couldn’t resist stopping by! Seriously Parkinson, are you missing something? My parents dragged me here because _your_ mother invited _us!”_

“Ooh, and of course poor little Malfoy-baby mustn’t stay home alone?”

For a moment, he looks at her venomously before getting up from the chair. “I think I’d rather listen to that French chick’s chatter, even though she sounds like a goat when laughing!”

He’s almost at the door when Pansy reaches for another fairy cake, but instead of eating it, she reaches back and hurls it at Malfoy. To her surprise, she aimed quite well; the cake bounces off his head, not without leaving a good amount of chocolate mousse in his white blond hair.

Pansy holds her breath as he stops, grabbing the back of his head and staring at the brown creamy filling on his fingers. Then she bursts out into hysterical laughter and even has to hold onto the edge of the table so as not to tip over.

“You didn’t do that,” he says quietly and approaches her. Still giggling, Pansy jumps from the table and increases the distance to Malfoy, but he stops in front of the cakes. Then he takes three off the tray and grins at her maliciously.

Her grin, however, freezes right away. “No! Don’t do that!” She calls, pointing at her dress. “My mother made this, she would kill me!”

“Oh no, that would be awful!” He says sarcastically and winds up.

Pansy ducks down, so the cake only just misses her, and then whirls around and runs screaming, Malfoy chasing her. She curses herself for being unathletic, and the dress for every single layer of tulle that makes her even slower. Malfoy will easily catch up with her even before they have rounded the table once!

Pansy feverishly considers how to stop him. But even if she had her wand with her, she couldn’t use it, as minors are only permitted to perform magic in school. But then it occurs to her that there is someone who can use magic for her!

“TESSY, TESSY!”

Immediately, the house-elf appears and Pansy yells, “LEG-LOCKER CURSE! HURRY!”

Confused and startled, Tessy’s eyes flick from Pansy to Malfoy. She points a finger at him and beeps, “Locomotor Mortis!”

For the first time, Pansy is grateful for Professor Snape’s defence course, without which she wouldn’t have known this spell existed. Gloatingly, she watches Malfoy’s legs snap together just a few steps behind her, he flails his arms and hits the ground.

“Hey! What’s that sh -”

“And the door, just in case.”

“Yes, yes, Miss.” Tessy claps her hands, whereupon the door makes a cracking sound, which indicates that it’s now firmly locked.

Groaning and swearing, Malfoy tries to stand up, which is complicated not only by his legs stuck together but also by the fact that he barely can bend his knees. 

“That’s it! You’re finished, Parkinson, and your stupid elf, too!”

Pansy ignores him and turns to Tessy. “Don’t say a word to anyone! I’m in my room and don’t want to be disturbed, understand?”

“Yes, Miss,” says the elf, looking at her mistress with faithful eyes.

“How long does the curse last?”

“Until Tessy will lift it, Miss.”

Pansy nods contentedly, but suddenly her stomach starts rumbling. Pretty bad. It’s happening so fast that she can only think ‘Merlin, please, no!’, before she bends over - and throws up!

As if the situation wasn’t degrading enough, Malfoy shouts out, “Eww!! I think I’m going to puke, too!”

_Moron!_

When it’s finally over, Pansy plops on a chair and stares at her shoes. She has never been more embarrassed!

With a cleaning charm, the elf removes the pool of sick and asks sympathetically, “Would Miss like to have a tea for her stomach?”

“Yes,” Pansy murmurs, and out of nowhere a steaming cup of tea appears on the table in front of her.

“You can go now,” she says wearily.

Tessy looks worried, but does as she is told.

At the same time, Malfoy manages to sit up. With a disgusted face, he crawls away from Pansy and leans against the patio door a few metres further.

She glares at him. “You still have chocolate in your hair. Looks pretty silly!”

“Are you aware that you’re in trouble if my father hears about this?” He hisses.

“Now don’t cry, you’re just a bit limited in your movements - unlike you, I didn’t try the _Avada_ on you! What would your father say about that?”

“There’s nothing to say, I didn’t even hold my wand!"

“You don’t joke about something like this.”

“It wasn’t joking, I honestly wished it would work that way.”

“You are disgusting.”

“I am? Well, I didn’t puke!”

“Stop saying “puke”, because it _makes_ me puke!”

Silence.

“So, will you stop throwing cakes at me?”

“Only if your elf fixes my hair!”

“Okay.”

“There is one more thing: Let’s call a truce, once and for all. Half the school year is over and I can’t allow myself to bother with childish quarrelling forever. After the holidays, I have to do more important things and I would advise you to do the same.”

“Oh, would you? Well, I’d love to hear more about that.”

“For example, you could use all your energy to sabotage Harry Potter. Or - crazy idea - study harder.”

Malfoy laughs. “Why on Merlin’s green earth would I have to study harder? Just for the record: I’m better than you!”

“Maybe in class, but not in writing. I caught you doing homework late at night, remember? This would never happen to me!”

A strange mixture of reluctance and tension is reflected in Malfoy’s gaze. But for a while, the room is silent, except for the soft clink of the tea cup that Pansy puts back on the saucer.

Suddenly he murmurs, “It wasn’t mine.”

“Huh?”

“It wasn’t my homework.”

At her blank look, he simply says, “Goyle.”

“Oh.” Pansy can’t think of anything else. She resists commenting that Goyle is apparently as dull as he seems to be.

“It’s not that he doesn’t try, but … he wouldn’t pass the school year. Crabbe and I take it in turns to correct his exercises every day. The others have no idea, and I’d rather keep it that way.”

Pansy frowns. Hearing Malfoy say that he’s secretly doing double the amount of homework just to help someone else, is one of the most bizarre things she has experienced in the past few months - and that’s saying something!

“I won’t say anything.”

He nods briefly.

“And you’re not telling anyone that I, uh, had an upset stomach.”

“Fine with me.”

Now Pansy feels a little more relaxed. She says, “When our parents had that conversation, your mother mentioned Goyles ... family situation.”

Malfoy snorts scornfully. “They’re probably glad he’s finally left for Hogwarts. Now they only have to write him every few weeks, but hey, at least they’ve also housed him for Christmas.”

“Sounds generous. But I don’t quite understand one thing yet: _Crabbe’s_ correcting Goyle’s homework, too?!”

He grins wryly. “Otherwise it would become obvious. And Crabbe muddles his way through school, somehow. He’s lazy, that’s his problem, but the fact that Goyle doesn’t have to repeat the first year motivates him.”

“That’s the second weirdest thing I’ve heard tonight.”

“Really? What’s number one?”

“That Sally is a seer.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s true! Well, that’s what she says, but I don’t think she’s lying. And Millicent knows it too, which means the whole school will be informed within two days. So you might as well know about it now.”

“Hm. And what does she see?”

“I don’t know, I was bugged and left.”

“Why?”

“Because Millicent started bugging Sally because of her power.”

“You are bugged when one person bugs another?”

“Yeah! Usually I am the one who gets bugged by her.”

“Okay ...”

She rolls her eyes. Malfoy obviously doesn’t understand a thing, but that’s typical for boys. Only when it comes to Quidditch, they suddenly got it all figured!

“I knew you girls were weird, but I had no idea it was that bad. Don’t you constantly get headaches or something?”

“Watch it, or I tell Tessy to hang you upside down from the ceiling!”

After calling her house-elf to remove the chocolate from Malfoy’s hair, unlock the door and undo the curse, Malfoy jumps up and bends his knees as if doing gymnastics. 

“I found it much cooler doing that curse under Snape’s surveillance - together with the counter-curse!”

“We should definitely show it to the Gryffindors!” Pansy says, grinning.

“Not a bad idea. I choose Potter! It’s just for practice, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“I would’ve suggested Hermione Granger, but this swot may even have the counter-curse in store,” says Pansy. “You wouldn’t think her parents are Muggles.”

Malfoy grimaces. “Wait - WHAT? Granger is a Mudblood?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily put it that way, but yes.”

“Call them whatever you want, there’s no place for those people at our school! And what’s more, some of them think they’re Merlin and become top of the class! It’s all Dumbledore’s fault!”

“Mhm, they should think about naming a successor.”

He casually leans sideways on the table and says, "Well, it may happen quite soon that Sally Perks predicts Dumbledore being escorted out of Hogwarts by security guards.”

“How is that?” Pansy asks incredulously.

“I told my parents about the troll and they were not at all pleased. Now they’re planning to get Dumbledore fired. Could be a lengthy process, but sooner or later they’ll get him.”

She ponders. If she sticks to the agreement with Tracey, nobody will find out about the Cerberus until somebody gets mauled. But if she drops the bomb, she would not only help to get a new Headmaster, but also everyone would know it was her who solved Hogwarts’ greatest mystery and faced a three-headed hound of hell! Then she might be again of more interest than Sally, and everything is as it should be.

She takes the last sip from her tea cup and finally asks, “Did you find out anything about the third-floor corridor?”

“Why do you bring that up right now?” Malfoy asks irritated. “There’s nothing to find out, the old man made a joke!”

“He didn’t. There’s a good reason why the corridor is forbidden. And I happen to know it.”

He nods approvingly. “So you just walked past the Prefects, shouting _‘Let me through, my mum’s a designer!’_ and discovered what? McGonagall’s cat litter box?”

She folds her arms. “First, I don’t talk like that, it sounds a lot more like you! Second, there was no Prefect around, they were all watching the Quidditch game like the rest of the school. And third, a Cerberus.”

“A Cerberus,” he repeats slowly, eyeing her suspiciously.

“I’m serious!”

“Okay, so there was a Cerberus right in front of you. Then you said hello and closed the door again, or what?”

“Of course not! Peeves was there and went inside. He told us. We were just standing at the door and heard a weird growl, and then we ran away.”

“We?”

“Tracey was with me, but that was just coincidence,” Pansy says dismissively, “it was all my idea to find out about the corridor.”

Malfoy’s expression changes from amused to thoughtful. “Let’s say, in theory, you’re telling the truth - do you realise what that would mean?”

“Dumbledore is retiring?”

“Not only that. A Cerberus is meant to protect something, like a highly valuable item.”

“I hadn’t even thought about this. Do you think we should ...”

“Before we’re going to tell anything, we’ll find out what that beast is guarding! If it actually exists, of course.”

For a few seconds, she looks at him blankly. Then she says, “But that would be ... completely crazy!”

“Kind of,” Malfoy says, grinning.

“And we’ll need help, we can’t do it alone! Something could go wrong and we end up a head shorter.”

“That’s a dark thought. You’d be as small as Professor Flitwick, if at all.”

“Ha, ha!” She gets up and pushes in the chair. “So, Millicent and the others would screw everything up, but I have a Ravenclaw friend, Padma Patil. She’s smart and won’t say a word anyone.”

“You mean the one with the twin sister in Gryffindor?”

Pansy goes to the door, Malfoy following her. “Yes, but Parvati won’t be in it, she sucks!”

“All right ... anyway, we shouldn’t let too many people in on it. Let’s hear what Ravenclaw says, first. We can still get Dumbledore fired later.”

On the one hand, Pansy feels euphoric; she may soon find some kind of treasure! Not that she’s in need of money, but it would definitely give a variety to the boring everyday school life. On the other hand, it feels very strange to make secret plans with Malfoy, of all people. But of course he’s still the same person, and a boy, too. So she still dislikes him, of course!

Apparently he was thinking something similar. “And just so you know, Parkinson: I’m still going to make midget jokes about you, and some day, you’ll get that Leg-Locker Curse back.”

“You know what, blondie - oh no, I’m feeling sick again!”

Malfoy jumps back.

“Tee-hee, fooled you!”

“You’re disgusting!”

“And you’re always scared like a girl!” giggles Pansy.

He rolls his eyes. “And you laugh like a three-year-old!”

“I don’t care,” she says, opening the door. “Anyway, I’m now going to ask Sally if she has been dreaming anything funny lately, of huge teeth or something.”

“And I’ll see if Zabini has got away from that chick meanwhile.”

“What did they even talk about for so long?”

“She asked him if he likes Quidditch, and that’s when I already had enough; she pronounced it like ‘Queedeedsh’! Anyway, she said that she had recently become a Quidditch fan, but just couldn’t remember the rules and if he’d mind to explain them to her. When I asked her about her favourite team, she stammered that she couldn’t pronounce the name! Bollocks! I’m amazed that Zabini voluntarily kept talking to her.”

“He voluntarily talks to you, too.”

Malfoy pushes past her and says before leaving, “If I remember correctly, you have some struggles performing the Tongue-Tying Curse. After the holidays, I’ll show it to you once again. Or twice.”

“You mean, if I don’t disarm you first!” Pansy calls after him.

Under no circumstances will she ever become friends with Malfoy, because then they’d have to be nice to each other and stop bickering.

And that would be kind of boring.


End file.
